Empty Room
by Fuchsia.Grasshopper
Summary: Sherlock knew the value in the lesson of falling down: to pick yourself back up and continue on. But falling to his 'death' only to come back three years later was proving to be a challenge. John was bothered, he was bored, and a new serial killer was on the streets. He begins to learn that the world is smaller, but is there room for her in it? Post-Reichenbach Eventual Sherlock/OC
1. Steady as he goes

**Welcome again new and old readers of my stories. If you are coming from my Star Trek fic I welcome you. This story starts out ****Post-Reichenbach because I won't be getting season three for a while where I live, and I always I wanted to make my own plot. So yes, it's kind of AU. Writing for a TV show, it can be difficult not to get sucked into previous plots and I didn't want to write something that everyone has already seen with an OC insert. I was hesitant to write this, but I knew it would be a challenge, and as a writer you stop growing if you don't make it difficult for yourself sometimes. This story, although listed as romance, will build up as a friendship for quite a while. It's Sherlock and things need to be taken slow. Hope you all enjoy, and let me know if you are interested in seeing more.**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing but any OC's and original plot ideas.**

* * *

"This way please, Miss." The middle-aged gentleman escorted her through the doors, and she'd already had enough of him since he'd barged into her office earlier in the day, talking all rules and regulations about how to proceed with one of their dead girls from the club. With what bizarre things had been reported recently, it didn't come as a surprise to her. The nasty details of the last few weeks' grisly murders had been available on every paper, internet column and news channel that was accessible to public eye. A dirty business. All the victims were working girls, or at least the unsavory type who chose to make a living out of selling sin. The third target was one of theirs, and she hadn't the decency to even appear shocked. Poor, unfortunate Taylor. She'd been one of the nicer ones too.

The DI kept tossing her a look, the kind that said he expected her to transform into a wailing mess any minute now. Not gonna happen. It probably had something to do with the twitchy vibe she was throwing off. She was quite a sight for the man no doubt, unexpected in his adapted territory, whatever that was. She didn't focus on that though, because she was being blinded. The florescent lights on the white tiled ceiling seemed endless, leading her down a tunnel to a predestined location. God she hated hospitals, or more to the point, the morgue. Why the hell did they have to use that obnoxious scent of cleaner on the floors? The acid lemon was burning her eyes, and creeping into her nose like an uppercut to her senses. She pulled at her hideous fleece jumper (the last thing she had grabbed off of her chair before leaving) hiking it up over her mouth and nose to spare her from the stench. Now she was breathing in the fabric softener she had picked up last week on bargain at Tesco, and with the combined smell of the putrid lemon, she came close to choking. Goddamn hospitals. She tried to actively avoid them, but no one else had been present at work so early in the day to identify the body.

"Are you alright?" A warm hand landed on her shoulder, and she pulled a snarl. The DI—Lestrade she remembered his name to be—wasn't able to make out her put-off look only because she was still shielding half of her face with her ridiculous jumper.

"Fine." She offered curtly before shaking him off. Even if she hadn't responded to being 'fine', why did people have to get handsy? She liked her comfort in the form of a distant head nod, reassuring and to the point.

She waited for him to go in through the double doors. No reason to delay it anymore, and besides, she had to get back in an hour before opening, or the whole club would fall apart without her. Lucky for her, good man Lestrade didn't seem to be patient with her any longer as he pushed through the barricade, barely holding the door opened for her to slip through before relinquishing his hold on the handle. Well fuck you very much sir.

She contained her hesitation as soon as her feet landed inside the vicinity of the morgue. Here came the part she hated. Just being inside of that place, the walls were already closing in, while her legs were doing that thing where they jiggled and bent like grass blades, just waiting for her ass to hit the nice linoleum. She wasn't going to do that though, not with four other people in the room. Well three. Poor Taylor didn't count.

By her own force she made it over to the slab of metal, acting as a bed for the unfortunate woman in a body bag. It would be the last resting place she'd see before a cheap coffin in a grave. The girl didn't have family, at least none that kept tabs on her, so who else was going to look after her? Putting that morose thought aside, she landed stuck between the DI and the other woman officer who looked like a tight-ass, walking around with a stick up her you-know-what while smelling like a man's deodorant like no one's business. She was offering up some sympathetic looks to her for the dead girl before them, but they went unheeded. The tiny Pathologist got down to unzipping the bag from an ordered whisper from Lestrade. The name sounded like Molly, and was confirmed by the name tag on her sanity white jacket.

After the final tooth on the zipper had been unlocked, the bag was pulled back to the cadaver's chest. Poor Taylor. There was no mistaking her for anyone else. Blue didn't look good on her, but it was where her complexion was set. Darker bands of black and purple were worn around her neck like a choker, and there was a registered look of surprise on her twisted, little face as lidless as it was. Two hollowed out caves were in her skull where eyeballs should have been, a pair of dazzling blues like the Adriatic that made men squirm in delight. Out of decency, the doctor had taken care to put sterile gauze over the exposed sockets, but she could venture a guess on what it looked like underneath there. The papers were vague on details to keep decent for the public, but Taylor had joined the growing list of victims to this new brand of serial killer. There was a maniac out there, looking for women's blood along with ripping out their eyes for sport. Lovely.

Getting back to her observing, she noted the condition of Taylor's most prized possession. Her wavy, auburn hair was all over the place, ruined from a night of primping before work. It wasn't actually maintained in the greatest way of course. The colour came from a box, and a thick strip of dark roots was already showing after neglect. She used too much hairspray and not enough conditioner. It had been coifed in the familiar way with too much backcombing for big volume, sacrificing the silky feel for dry dead ends. Hideously scandalous, another thing that drove men mad.

"That's her." She said, her voice raspy. She hated when it did that because it bought her more concerned glances from the three people standing around her and the corpse of her employee.

"Would you like a moment alone with her?" It was the petite doctor who asked her. The juxtaposition between her and her job, was comical. She was pretty, maintained clean and proper unlike the girls at the club, though there was a skittish quality to her beneath that lab coat that suggested she did better around corpses than real people and thus was her reason for being there. To each his own.

"No…I mean I just…no thank you." Great, she was sputtering now. She needed out of this place, "Can I go now?" She turned back to Lestrade.

He didn't contain his shock very well, not when his eyebrows reached staggering heights on his forehead, almost completely touching his nutmeg colored hairline. It was greying, likely a potent combination from stress of his job and home life. He was a decent enough fellow though, so who was she to judge? "Yes, I suppose we don't need you for anything else here tonight. We will be in touch however."

Just as quick as he was to pass off his number, instinctively she reached into the back pocket of her black jeans, producing a small slip of a business card with her name and number for work, "Call when you have something."

He barely caught the card in his hand before she was retracting her own, swiftly turning to get to the door. They were probably watching and judging her odd behavior, but she didn't care. Let them watch. Hitting the door with the heel of her hand, she busted through them and was out in the hallway again. Her pace had quickened into a short jog, and more than one of the officers from Scotland Yard were watching her with bemusement and humor. They didn't dare laugh in a hospital, not before the doors of a morgue where the new victim laid along with the other toe-tagged stiffs. It didn't mean they fought the small grins at her behavior, running down the corridor like a lunatic, but dammit, she needed air. The cold, musty kind that only London could provide for her lungs.

She had memorized her way back out of that maze, feeling liberated as the automatic doors pulled apart, letting her slip out into the evening streets. She had been transported over there by police car, so it looked like she'd be hailing a cab back to work. The evening colours were already beginning in the sky as she walked along the pavement of St. Bart's. Work wasn't an inconveniently long distance from here, but her ability to catch the attention of a cab was less than stellar. Three passed by her before one finally pulled to a stop at the curb.

"Thank you." She uttered, her mood soured by the evenings events.

'_No one better be an idiot tonight at work'_, she thought wryly, _'I'm in a mood.'_

After she directed the cabbie where to go, she did her best to relax. The seats were stiff and smelt of mildew and smoke, so it wasn't like being charioted away in a limousine, but she could deal. She pulled her mobile out from her fleece, checking over messages and her schedule. Same old, same old. People from work texting her, missed phone call from her boss, and work was bound to be the same, except that she had a real crummy night ahead of her when she'd have to explain that one of their girls had been murdered. Everything else that came with it was business as usual at a nightclub; life in the fast lane.

It was times like these she favored the backseat of the cab because she didn't have to drive or talk. Absentmindedly she watched the driver. A frail specimen, appearing older than he probably was thanks to a receding hairline and a saggy face drawn in from his mouth. She played around with the idea that he resembled a Basset hound, with droopy features around his eyes, and jowls around is mouth. She didn't take the cabs too often, but when she did, it felt good to be out mixing in the public. She actually preferred a ride on a red double-decker over a cab, but tonight she didn't have time to wait. Not that she did a lot of mixing with crowds; she was usually just background noise.

She brushed away an imaginary thread from her dark jeans, her booted foot tapping idly as she started to recognize the buildings they drove past through the window. Her place of work resided up ahead as she read over the familiar title of the club. She paid the cabbie her fare with a polite word before stepping out into the late autumn air. It smelt like rising yeast and cinnamon because of the bakers just a short walk down the lane. Cute place, she sometimes stopped in for a roll or tart when her sweet tooth was giving her a hard time. Her mind became filled with other things though as she paced through the threshold of the door to her work. The liquor was strong tonight, promising for a packed house. She waved a short hello to a co-worker setting up for the night, waiting for their chav clientele to arrive just to become completely legless over a night of drinking. She went back to her office, shrugging out of her jumper as she collapsed in her chair behind the desk. Despite the fact that she was in a lousy mood, she was home.

* * *

John stared down at his penny loafers somewhat despairingly. Lord, is this all he could afford to buy these days? What had he been thinking? The clerk had been so sure they were suited to him. She had been all dazzling smiles and flirtatious eyes around him and that's how it had happened. Bloody woman had gotten her sale and he got landed with a cheap brown pair of things that could go on his feet with no promise of a date.

Maybe it wasn't only the shoes bothering him. No, in fact he was certain it wasn't. His one obnoxious, ignorant, insufferable problem was seated directly beside him in the moving cab. Three years. Sherlock had popped back out of the blue, back to 221B Baker Street and back into his uninspiring life. Never mind the fact that he was convinced his mate had fallen to his death from the roof of the hospital they were now traveling to. John had stuck himself back into therapy for that, not to mention Sherlock had eavesdropped on his goodbye at the gravesite after the funeral. He had yet to apologize for that. It was hopeless to wait, but a small part of him was naïvely anticipating an 'I'm sorry' from his consulting detective. He suspected Sherlock knew this too. How could he not, he only saw everything and then some with just one glance at a person.

Things had, for the most part, carried on in the last two months like nothing had changed. Except everything had, at least for John's part of it. At first at the start of his return, Sherlock had tried to force himself into polite gestures that John assumed was his attempt at apology. He'd attempted to keep the odds thing he brought home for the fridge down to a minimum and he'd even stolen his laptop less than usual. Sherlock was a creature of habit though, and any polite traits he'd tried to impose for John's sake had quickly vanished in the span of a week. Baker Street fell back into its mess caused by his eccentric flatmate, Mrs. Hudson continued to stress she was their landlady and not their housekeeper, and John remained observantly quiet. If he saw half as much as Sherlock, maybe he'd have more progress. Too bad the world only had room for one consulting detective.

The cases had continued, and John hadn't even needed persuading to join in again. He despised that part of him for being so weak, allowing for Sherlock to walk over him, but the thrill was just another part he had missed along with the man himself. Sure, he'd thrown a punch and had given him a fat lip to deal with for the first few days upon his return, but that reaction was expected. Sherlock hadn't even complained or threw up a fuss about it. How could he have not missed this life? It promised only hurt with zero chance of stability, but when he had thought Sherlock for dead for three years, he hadn't moved on. So here they were, in the back of a cab with the only noise being made was the boot of the car rattling when they'd hit an odd end of street. John released a sigh as he once again caught a glance at his shoes from the light of a passing street lamp. What a sorry state of dress he was in, but one word from Sherlock about Lestrade and case, and he was sprinting after him through the door without much care to his appearance.

"Honestly John, the whole of Scotland Yard doesn't care how you are dressed. I should hope you will cease with that noise at the morgue."

And, there it was. Having a bad day, you could always count on Sherlock with a rude word of reassurance, "Maybe if I had been given a minute of time, I would have picked something other than these… these things!" He kicked his short legs up and pointed at his shoes with having lack of a better word to describe the things on his feet.

"Then take them off." Was Sherlock's simple reply.

"What, and walk around in my argyles?" He exclaimed.

"John, you're being dull again."

The stopping of the cab signalled the end of their conversation, and John hadn't even gotten the last word in, like always. Sherlock was already hitting the pavement, leaving John to pay the fare. It was amazing how these annoying habits had returned so swiftly, but he merely grumbled under his breath while throwing some money to the cabbie before venturing out after his friend. The night was cold and he pulled his coat just a little tighter around his neck as his short strides strived to catch up to Sherlock's longer gait. John faltered a bit, like he always did recently when his eyes would accidently trail up to the roof of the building. Nasty reminders of things he'd rather forget. It always managed to take his breath away, and that same hopeless feeling would squeeze at his heart. Sherlock was alive and well though, but that didn't mean the last three years hadn't happened for John, and they served as reminder of what would happen if Sherlock truly did die. No one could fake their own death twice, and that thought lingered as he entered St. Bart's.

It was a steady night, the hallway lined with officers from the Yard. Most recognized him at this point, which meant they didn't want to associate with him having been known to be the partner of the consulting detective nearly everyone detested. John thought bitterly that maybe if they were better at their jobs, they wouldn't see Sherlock as the 'Freak'. What an awful thing to be called, yet Sherlock never seemed to pay any heed to such remarks. John knew he heard them though, but he never made any indication about how he felt about the name-calling. To her credit, Sally Donovan had refrained from doing so as often since Sherlock's awakening from the grave. Maybe she understood the value of him a bit better now, or maybe John was just optimistic for his friend's sake.

He finally arrived at the doors of the morgue, Sherlock and the others already inside as he pushed through the entrance. Another familiar sight. Lestrade and Molly hovering while Sherlock took care of examining the body, all three wearing latex gloves. He didn't have to look up from his work to know John was the present company, and he spoke to him without ever turning his direction, "What kept you?"

"I—" John grasped for an explanation when he realized he had none.

"Don't be slow John, get over here, I could use your opinion."

Unlikely, as he always had everything deduced before John could even speak, but he obliged anyway. Lestrade gave him a brief nod while Molly smiled shyly and handed him his own pair of gloves to don. For the first few weeks John had felt some bitter resentment towards the pathologist. Sherlock had trusted her with his secret for three years while he had been left to mourn. It hadn't seemed fair. He half expected Molly to have told him at some point, and he also was jealous of her for having never learned the loss he had experienced. The feeling had faded now as he understood Molly fell into a different branch of friend for Sherlock. She was important in a quiet way, one that Moriarty hadn't seen and thus left her unthreatened. That probably hurt her in some way, and her relationship with Sherlock hadn't shifted any either from what John had played witness to.

He joined the rest of the party around the metal table, sucking in a harsh breath as he noticed the state of the corpse. Another young woman, taken from life rather cruelly. It was only the third murder, but something had been done in the same fashion as the other two and that was enough to confirm a serial killer, prompting Sherlock's excitement to agree to investigate. It was a level seven he had said, which John didn't understand, but he'd given up on that rating system a long time ago. He could only see the bandage over her eye sockets and the strangulation marks over her neck, and he wondered what else Sherlock was able to pull from that. A great deal it always seemed, "Horrible." He uttered with a headshake.

"Yes, tragic." Sherlock reiterated, though he didn't sound the least bit sincere, "But what else?"

John hated being asked that question. Sherlock already knew all the answers, so why continue to make the rest of them feel stupid when he could easily explain everything? "It's the same as the other two girls that were found. Their eyes have been taken."

"They weren't murdered under the same context. She was asphyxiated. Large handprints, obviously male. There are no signs that she struggled and fought back, so she was already unconscious when he decided to kill her. She was put under from a chemical substance most likely, as she has no injuries suggesting to a physical blow to the head. And as John's observation skills pointed out so saliently, like the other two girls, both eyes have been forcibly taken post-mortem."

"The first two girls received stab wounds." Lestrade said with question in his voice, "It could be two different killers."

"Don't be stupid." Sherlock said, slightly disgusted at the suggestion. It wasn't as if things had been left any easier for Lestrade. He'd gone through a hard time at work because of his connection with Sherlock, even losing his position as DI for a while until the Yard thought it was right to promote him once again. John knew Sherlock didn't take these things into consideration when he spoke like that, but Lestrade was another one to have grown a thick skin around Sherlock's discourteous comments.

"Everything he has done is deliberate." Sherlock continued with underlying annoyance in his voice, "His pattern is taking a token, their eyes, but to what purpose does he need them for?" They cleared room as he started to pace, his mind falling into deep thought, all synapses firing while listing off possibilities quicker than John could blink. What it was to be Sherlock Holmes.

"There was no record of a mother, but we've been trying to track down her father. His last known living address was listed in Liverpool." Lestrade remarked.

It didn't appear as though Sherlock was listening, or the bit of information Lestrade had given was of no interest because he had already figured that much out. Something else was able to draw his attention back to the present, and of course it was Anderson bumbling through the door with Donovan in tow. They didn't get very far before Sherlock noticed them with an agitated expression, "No! My concentration suffers greatly if your face is present." He pointed directly at the man with the incredulous look on his face.

Anderson looked ready to argue, but Lestrade waved him off, signally for Sally to take him out of the room so they could finish up without hassle, and maybe a little more respect from Sherlock. Doubtful, but the two headed back out, sharing little mutterings about the consulting detective no doubt. John frowned again as he pondered over something, turning to the Detective Inspector curiously, "Who identified the body then if not a relative? A boyfriend?"

Lestrade answered negatively with a head shake, "Someone from her work left their card. It might be a good lead."

He handed the slip of paper over to John, who read over the simple print. All it gave was a name, a location and the place of business with a listed number. **"Vicarious" **was the place, and under it in smaller print read **Avery Nash**. "A night club?" John remarked, familiar with the name, though had never been.

The card was swiped from his hand viciously as Sherlock looked over it, "Look at her hair John, she didn't work for Solicitors as a secretary."

John felt his eyes drift back to the dead girls' hair, and immediately felt shameful for doing so. So maybe she wasn't high class, but it did no good to insult the dead, not when her corpse was but a foot away, "Are we leaving then?" He asked Sherlock impatiently, growing uncomfortable as their time progressed in the morgue.

"In a minute." Sherlock brushed him off.

"What is Avery Nash's job?" John asked Lestrade.

"I believe head of security for Vicarious. Bit of a dodgy place, I was thinking of looking into it further, but if you two want to be the first to go before my people _contaminate_ it, then be my guest." There was some contempt in the way he said contaminate, mostly likely due to the fact that Sherlock referred to it as that one too many times.

"We are going." Sherlock finally decided snapping off his gloves, and John could only wonder what had convinced him.

Molly made haste to zip the bag closed on the body, her actions jerky as she looked rushed to speak, "I might not be able to get any eyes to you to experiment on, seeing as there's a shortage now." She laughed slightly at her little funny, but everyone else seemed to take note on how dark of humor it was. John winced while Lestrade looked to the floor with his face contorted into a grimace, "Oh, I'm sorry!" She squeaked.

"Molly, this is no time for jokes, especially lousy ones you so wastefully have to apologize for." Sherlock told her sternly without an ounce of hesitation. He was floating towards the door again, his coat billowing behind him as he called over his shoulder, "I expect to have the toxicology report when it is finished, and I will need to see the personal effects she was found in. Come John, no time to dilly-dally."

John huffed as Sherlock already disappeared from the morgue. Lestrade gave him a small smirk as he caught the peeved look on his face, "Remember, we're glad to have him back."

"I'm trying." But even as he said this in a grudging tone, his feet were already following after in Sherlock's direction. His heart was pumping wildly, wistful for the adventure that he desperately craved with Sherlock.

It took him no time to leave St. Bart's, his friend already down at the pavement as the breeze tousled with the unruly patch of dark hair atop his head. He still wore the same brand of coat, the same blue scarf and the same expression on his face that John was always so used to seeing. It was a welcomed sight as he joined at Sherlock's side. Like magic, he was able to hail a cab without hassle and he threw opened the door boisterously, jumping in as John followed in after. Sherlock read the directions to the club off the card, the cabbie looking through his mirror back at them with a quizzical expression, "Vicarious isn't one of those types of clubs."

Sherlock remained blank face, but John quickly scowled, "We're not gay."

"Right, sir." The cabbie said genuinely, "Wouldn't be any trouble if you were. Just a suggestion was all I meant."

Outstanding. Three years later, and people were still mistaking them for a couple. John really needed to find a girl, or maybe a new wardrobe. Something less domestic would maybe put an end to that foolish conclusion from everybody in London. He didn't let it bother him too badly as their cab pulled into traffic, and they set off into the night for new clues about their recent case. John was already thinking up suited titles for the blog once they got on to solving it, but time would tell what they would uncover.

* * *

**Alright, so that's chapter one. Love it, hate it? I don't really have too much faith in my ability to write for this category, but I had an idea and I went with it. As you can see, it's an original plot. I only ever followed the script of a source material once, and I will never do so again, so since then I've tried to be creative with my fics for the readers. Hope this is OK. Also, Mary Morstan will be in this story, but I will choose to add her when I'm ready and it fits with the story. Don't want to overwhelm everyone all at once. I want to elaborate on what it's been like for John and Sherlock re-establishing their friendship, and I'll dare to write Sherlock's POV next chapter already. That's the reason for the vagueness in the OC. I want you to see her through Sherlock's eyes, not mine. He's much better at seeing a person, and I hope that will be to everyone's liking. I'm also not from the UK, so if it doesn't sound English, I apologize. I'm not sure when the next update will be because I want to finish my Star Trek fic soon, but I couldn't resist posting this so everyone has a feel of the tone, and I was encouraged by some lovely people, so thank you!**

**Next chapter: Sherlock and John go to "Vicarious" to learn more about the deceased Taylor and her place of work. **


	2. Weapon of Mass Deduction

**Alright, so another chapter for you to all try out. I know the Sherlock category is rumored to be filled with silent readers, but I think seven reviews as a start was wonderful. Thank you for the lovely insight and I hope this keeps things interesting.**

**Thanks to Le Pleiade, jessicallons-y, blown-transistor, Blogi, LookAliveSunshine03, hayleyb29 and sillystring-roxs-the-earth for reviewing.**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing but any OC's and original plot ideas you don't recognize. **

* * *

It was the most inopportune time to come up with a case of the fidgets. Not that he would look any different on the outside to the ordinary eye, he had a great deal of skill when hiding what he was feeling and thinking. The next step was to go to the place of work of the most recently deceased; any other direction would be redundant. Sherlock was curious, as how could he not be? It was so simple a lead, too simple actually. The girl had no one else but coworkers to identify her in death, making her a classic victim to attract such a killer. It spared them of the sentiment of any family missing her when she was gone, and likely her employer had shown last minute when no one else could be found to claim her. Most unfortunate that the dead girl had to have been employed at a nightclub. Not a place he was ever to venture if he could help it, but now wasn't the time for him to play up excuses.

"Any ideas?" John's voice beside him broke through his coursing river of thoughts. His voice was patient, so it was the first time he had broken the silence in the cab. Often times John grew annoyed when his questions went unanswered, but to be fair, he wasn't always in a present mind frame to hear them. Most of John's questions were predictable, hardly requiring much of Sherlock's attention, but he endured them for his blogger.

"I have seven." Sherlock mused, "But more information is required before any one of those can be conclusive."

John made a small sound of acknowledgement as he tried to work out for himself what ideas those could be. Try as he would, judging by the hard look of concentration on his face, he could not get the ends to add up. "What are we going to look for at her work?"

"We'll speak with the one person who cared enough to identify the body. Should I let you handle that, after all, sentiment is your area." It was sometimes good sport to put John up to a challenge and see what he could deduce for himself. If on a rare occasion he could surprise Sherlock, than it was a successful attempt.

"You want me to do the questioning?" John asked rather baffled. Sherlock hummed in agreement to show he was listening, "Alright. I suspect you'll jump in when I mess it all up anyways."

How right he was. So like his Watson to be up for the task, and a pleasant grin broke out on his round face that Sherlock hadn't seen in the past two months since his return. Not that he cared to admit it, but he had fear deep in his mind that maybe his 'suicide' had broken John. It was obvious that his death would affect his flatmate more than anyone else, but such things Sherlock would not talk about. It also seemed a topic the doctor was not likely to broach anytime soon either. Sharing feelings…that was no good.

They entered the east side, a lower scale neighbourhood, not quite meant for the poor and homeless, but any form of decent intellect was going to be a rare find around there. They had left St. Bart's when the sun had gone down, not terribly late for one of their excursions, but late enough for a nightclub to already be fully operational. It was difficult to contain his objection at the mere sight of the establishment. Crowds of young people waiting to get inside while horrible sounds that apparently were described as music pumped out through the door, and he couldn't have been more irritated if he tried. He wasn't so opposed to detest the idea of having to go inside as he was eager for new information, and that was enough to propel himself out of the cab, leaving John to sprint after him. When he slowed his long stride so John could finally managed to catch up with him, Sherlock could hear a few choice words uttered under his breath about paying the fare again. Instead of leading on ahead, Sherlock handed John the business card back with impatience on his face, "Right then, lead the way."

John swallowed thickly as he looked over the card between his fingers, "You want me to start?"

"All part of you asking the questions John. I am simply here to observe." He was confident before the end of this night, that there would be a shift in power and he would have control of the reins again.

Regardless, he followed after his short friend, noting the details of the entrance of the club. **"Vicarious" **was scrawled out in lights of neon green, illuminating the pavement on the borders of its entrance. Emboldened, John stepped up passed the lineup to the door, a much larger man than both of them combined stood there with a guarded expression on his broad face. When John came up to him, he appeared surprised briefly, and there was recognition on his face that made Sherlock want to groan. Another one of John's fans from the blog it seemed. His flatmate cleared his throat before speaking, "Excuse me, but I was wondering where we might be able to find Avery Nash. This card was left at the hospital, and we'd like to speak with your head of security for a moment."

"You're here because of Taylor." The bouncer mentioned, and he tried to fight the excitement from his voice at the prospect of their showing up. In his calling, there was no room to act friendly, and Sherlock suspected he didn't' want to seem overly enthused that their reason for being present was because of a dead employee. He wasn't one of their customary fans in any case, and Sherlock was pleased he hadn't become star struck over them. "You can go in through the back. Colin will be there to let you in." He had on a headset to be able to communicate with his team of co-workers, speaking into it to let this Colin know they were arriving. While nudging his head to the alleyway to left where they could enter without having to walk through the mobs of youth, he continued his job of letting people in two at a time.

Some of the younger crowd were watching them, an odd mixture of fascination and confusion in their beady eyes. Their generation wasn't a favourite with Sherlock. They fretted over the unimportant, and few lived up to their potential of their age, taking for granted a youthful brain and how much it actually could absorb if it wasn't already filled with drivel and nonsense. He turned his gaze away from them to the dark alley that he and John were now plunging into. The sounds from the entrance filtered down the dark crevice, and only a trash bin and a steel door to the building were artifacts of importance through the pitch length between the buildings.

"Do we just knock?" John wondered as they stopped in front of the door.

Sherlock crinkled his nose as he pulled a face, "That would be a wise place to begin, how astute of you."

John sent him a scathing look as he raised a fist to knock three times. Sherlock could hear John's thoughts yelling at him for being rude, which he chose to ignore. They waited for a moment or two, stuck stupid in the alley before the door swung outward, causing John to leap back in surprise. Another large gentlemen of the same make as the one at the entrance was there to let them in. Recognition also passed over his face, but he didn't greet them with any sliver of warmth when he ushered them into a back hallway of the club. The sounds and smells were at Sherlock's senses, muddling his thought process and corroding his stoic mood. At once he was miffed about being there, and he had the distinct impression that he would be interrupting John's sorry attempt at interrogation much swifter than realized.

"Down the hall, first door to your right." Came the blunt directions from bouncer Colin.

Just from looking at him, Sherlock could see passed the muscles and hard exterior to the man worrying over making rent this month because of paying for his mother's hospital bills. He was more than just a dunderhead filled up with testosterone, though he tended to use his fists and rage over rationality to solve his trepidations. Typical club attire for a bouncer; black from head to toe, ink running up along the left side of his arm, venturing under the tight fitted shirt he was flexing in. Made up for his lack of social skills with hardened exterior then. His face was carrying one too many pieces of metal that would set off the detectors at an airport, and his gaze, stone cold. His hair was shaved close to his head, easy upkeep so he was rather lazy. He hadn't worked at the nightclub long; taking the first job he could meet requirements for in the wanted ads because of pressure from his mismanaged finances. On any other day Sherlock knew from first impression that he would have been as jovial to see them as his fellow mate at the front door, but they had the misfortune of catching him on an off night.

Setting his sights on a new target, Sherlock followed John as he made his way down the indicated hallway. There were four other doors excluding the one they were directed to, and Sherlock concluded that one was another office, a storage cupboard, a toilet for staff, and a staff lounge for employees to store their belongings. He would need access to the last one to discover anything else about their victim. Losing focus of his surroundings, he almost missed when John reached for the handle of the door, allowing for them to enter the office. Sherlock felt a small smile tug at his lips, enthralled to see his flatmate go to work.

"Mister Nash, I was wondering if you could spare us a moment of your time to talk with you about your employee, Taylor Greenly."

Short, blonde hair was peaking over the top of the chair before it spun around to reveal a woman. Her brow was raised at John's insinuation of him thinking her a male. It hadn't occurred to Sherlock that John would even make that mistake, for he had known just by Lestrade's body language that the head of security in question was female. Nevertheless, John had already made a mistake, and Sherlock allowed a faint smirk on his face because of it.

"Oh gosh, I am so sorry. Forgive me." John stumbled as his face turned hot, "I thought…your name is Avery, and I knew a gentleman—"

"It's alright. You're not the first to make that mistake." And judging by her thin lipped expression, she hoped he would be the last. "Please, take a seat Doctor Watson, and Mr. Holmes." She gestured to the chairs before her desk. In fact, aside from the bulk of the furniture in the middle of the room, the only other item placed against the wall was a metal filing cabinet. That left little for Sherlock to go off of; she didn't even have any pictures on her desk, or a calendar on the wall. Perhaps the barren state of the room itself spoke more of what kind of person Ms. Nash really was. More deduction was required.

"You know our names?" John exclaimed as he carefully brought himself into the chair.

The corner of her mouth lifted into a half smile, "Of course. Everyone here reads your blog; you must have noticed Brendan swooning as he sent you back. We're just like anyone else."

And yet Sherlock didn't believe that for a second, not by what he read from the little she provided. She was difficult to surmise, not the worst he'd ever come across, but a challenge nonetheless, and how he loved those. She was born and bred from London, having only ever left the city for short periods of time for business and leisure. Her skin was pale from being under the grey skies of the city, and no tan lines suggested she didn't venture outside often. The jumper clinging on to the back of her chair smelt of St. Bart's from her past visit to the morgue, so she had indeed been the one to identify the body. From over the desk he could assume by her posture in the chair that she was tall, with a rather straight and unimpressive figure. That didn't keep his flatmate from letting his eyes wander over her of course, and Sherlock wanted to roll his eyes at John's habitual interests in the opposite sex. What she had lacking in curve appeal was made up for with tight muscles. She wasn't big, but she was lithe beneath that over-sized top tucked into her trousers. Her job was head of security, so she could handle herself in a scuffle. Her heather eyes showed indifference which she was struggling to uphold. So she cared about the employee who was murdered, even if she didn't let on about it. Sentiment. Sherlock's eyes traced back up to her hair, the thing that caused John all of his grief the moment they had entered. It was clipped short, purposefully so and certainly not used to attract men. She had no close connections with her family, and her social interactions were kept to the people she surrounded herself with at her job. She was ensconced in a vibe of loss and regret, the usual kind he would expect from someone like her. She was a recovering addict.

"Well, thank you." John cleared his throat as he kept his eyes on her face. Already enamored it seemed, "Are you the owner of the club as well?"

"No, but Max is away for the night, so I have been put in charge to handle any matters regarding Taylor." She explained. "I already met with your fellow from Scotland Yard earlier tonight. I'm not sure if I can recall his name; Lestrade was it?"

"Yes, that's him. He gave us your card." John placed it back on the desk.

"Keep it. I have new ones printed every month." She pushed it back to him with long, steely fingers, painted an iridescent black on the nails. Perhaps an instrument player, though the absence of callus on her fingertips indicated to having not played in years, "What did you hope to see me for?" Her eyes skirted back to Sherlock every so often, and he could sense she was picking up on his unusually quiet behavior. Really, it took the fun out of his plans when the person was aware of his habits, courtesy of John's blog.

"What more can you tell us about Miss Greenly?" John was starting with the simple questions already, which meant his intervention would have to come soon if they were to get anywhere.

"Mmm." She made a sound as she sat back in her chair, "I was unaware you were the detective Doctor, or is there something wrong with Mr. Holmes since his return from the dead?"

Sherlock smiled a bit smugly as he turned to John who wore a dejected face, "Go ahead." He motioned in defeat, sensing the end of his charge.

"Finally." Sherlock said with an air of satisfaction as he pulled himself straighter in the chair, "As head of security, it is your job to do the hiring. You conduct background checks on all of the employees before hire. What were Miss Greenly's qualifications?"

"I assume you know what her job really was, and all I can say is she did not communicate with any family so she kept a low profile. She was clean, and she had no prior record. To the world, Taylor Greenly barely existed outside of these doors." Strange, she addressed him as she would any other person to walk through her office, and Sherlock wasn't sure how much he liked that.

"See John?" He asked pointedly, getting back on track.

"Not really, but please continue." The blogger said with a perplexed expression.

Sherlock felt slightly disappointed at how simple others minds could be. If only they would allow their eyes to see what was clearly before them, however, it would appear he would have to clarify, "Miss Greenly was not unlike the other two victims before her. However, the first two bodies went unclaimed, but Miss Greenly has a network of employees here, ready and willing to identify, something our killer did not anticipate. Such a careless mistake, and so early on." Sherlock tutted, "Who is in charge of the books here?"

"Why, are you planning on telling your friend at the Yard about my boss being a glorified pimp as well as a bookie?" She uncrossed her legs from beneath the desk to give him a sharp look.

"Irrelevant. Neither factor is necessary or significant to the details to solve the case. Obviously your boss isn't the killer, so his illegal activities mean little to me." He remarked offhandedly, "I will need access to the staff lounge to see any personal items left behind by the victim."

"Sherlock, you can't just go take her personal items because you want to." John said with horror on his face.

Sherlock looked nonplussed, "But I asked."

John heaved a sigh before Avery interrupted them, "Actually, I feel no trouble letting you take her things. No one else will come to claim them, except maybe men from the Yard, and I'd rather they remain in your possession if they will do you any good."

She rose form her seat, and as he suspected, she was tall. This of course was welcomed by John, his eyes snapping to her legs in black denim as she strode around the desk. She had a ring of keys kept around a chain on her neck, searching through them until she clasped a small brass one between her fingers, "Come with me."

Sherlock was up and out of his seat before she could get the door of her office opened while John lagged behind. She was rather cooperative, but only because she detested police offers. Sherlock made that out the moment she had to be reminded of Lestrade's name as well as the tone she used when discussing the Yard. They walked along the stiff carpet of the hallway to the last door. Easy to make out it was the staff lounge because of the many hand prints dirtying the handle. Avery pushed opened the door, it not having been locked after all. The key was for Taylor's locker instead, which she quickly led them over to as she hit the lights on in the large room. It was like a spell had been casted as the light uncovered the many mysteries that darkness concealed. The room was sparse with furniture, and a small kitchenette was situated in the corner. Two old couches were in the center of the room, beading around the edges that was starting to fray, and a low table was placed in the middle with scuff marks on the varnish from one too many pairs of shoes resting up upon it. It smelt like cold coffee and tea.

"She didn't keep much I'm afraid." Avery spoke again as she revealed the personal contents kept inside of Taylor's cubby hole, "She usually prepared for work back at her flat before coming here."

She took a step aside to allow for Sherlock to dig through the few articles of clothing and knick-knacks that had been in the victim's possession before she was murdered. Typical prostitute, though hardly a normal brothel she worked under. John and Avery stood beside him as he observed the items, picking one at a time before discarding it back into the pile. Every single one wasn't worth future referencing. He would delete all of that immediately. An idea came to him: something Avery had said, "Do you have a key to her flat? It would be much more convenient than having to break in."

"We are not breaking into a dead woman's' flat!" John hissed before giving an apologetic look to Avery, "I'm sorry, he's rather tactless sometimes."

Avery was not offended however, giving Sherlock a curious look, "What would you need into her flat for?"

"Her body was discovered just around the street corner of her living address. I need to see a setting to establish a visual of what occurred."

He didn't expect her to understand this concept, but her face remained passive as she nodded, "Good enough, but you will have to take me with you. I have a spare key to her flat that the police don't know about, and imagine how it would look if I just let it out to anybody? Even Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock pulled a face at the idea of a woman accompanying him and John to a crime scene. It felt like an intrusion on their time together, something he had worked to establish since his return. John's eyes were sparkling with delight at the prospect of it though, and Sherlock would be damned if he'd have to sit through another silly attempt at John dating, especially someone from such a different wavelength than the blogger. "It won't be intruding on your work, would it?" John asked considerately.

"Thursday nights are slow, and Colin and Brendan can handle things while I'm away." She excused, "Just give me a moment to grab my things from my office."

They stepped out of the staff lounge, Avery hitting the lights at the last second before she abandoned them in the back hallway of the club for her office. John watched as she disappeared, his face glowing slightly as he spoke, "She seems friendly."

"Honestly John, must you chat up every female you come across?" Sherlock said distastefully, "And I wouldn't hold your hopes out for a shag. She's—what's the expression—out of your league?"

John looked indignant from the remark, "Rubbish! What would you know about that?"

"She has had relations with her boss, Maxwell, in the past. Quite simple to deduce from her tone to the switching of her positions when she discussed him. She is also a recovering addict."

John appeared gutted from the information as well as peeved, "I don't think you should be telling me that, and who are you to place judgement on that anyways?"

Sherlock frowned, "It wasn't a judgment call, just the simple truth."

Instantly John's face lightened, and he held his mouth opened, ready to apologise for the third time that night if it wasn't for the connecting door to the club opening, revealing a rather scantily glad woman as the loud music followed her through. Her eyes took them both in and a grin broke out on her painted up face. She was another one of the woman from the club with that unsightly high hair, fake eyelashes, fake nails and fake breasts which she pushed up a little higher in her racy top. A prostitute then or maybe a call girl was a more polite term to go along with the running of the establishment. All Sherlock was able to distinguish between the lyrics of the song that had flowed through when she had opened the door was her positive attitude. He was often taken aback by such people, much like his homeless network, on how they could keep so merry under the circumstances they were placed under. So willing to live life regardless of societies standards.

"Hello boys." The box-colour ginger greeted them as she stalked towards them in impossibly high heeled shoes, "Are you two together?"

John cleared his throat, and probably to prevent from choking on her heady perfume, "No, we're just waiting for someone."

"Maribel maybe? She'll do one at a time. I can do you both at once, but it'll cost you double." She smiled at them sweetly, twisting a stray lock around her finger as she flashed her pearly whites, ready to sink into them.

Johns face flooded into a blush of mortification, and Sherlock would admit to being uncomfortable now that she had propositioned them. He pulled at his scarf around his neck, looking at the wall beside the redhead as she giggled at them. Now he was embarrassed. A woman's teasing laughter reminded him of past things he'd rather forget, and it made him feel inadequate.

"Wendi, get away from them!" Small miracles did happen. Even though they'd only just become acquainted, both he and John were relieved by Avery's return. Her face was stern as she fussed with her jumper, tugging it down by the hem while she stormed towards them. The hallway was now congested with people, though the ginger (whose name was Wendi evidently) looked unsure of herself with Avery's arrival. "They aren't customers; they're detectives here because of Taylor."

"Consulting detective." Sherlock interjected.

"Pardon?" Avery stopped to give him a hard look.

"John is the doctor, and I'm the consulting detective."

"I'm aware." She deadpanned before turning to Wendi, "I'm leaving for a while. Did you need something?"

"Well, Max isn't here, but I was wondering if I could have Saturday night off?" Her flirty tone had vanished as she spoke seriously with the female head of security. The matter she was inquiring for had to do with a family member Sherlock gathered just by the way her shoulders had sagged. This Wendi looked similar to Taylor because of her coloured hair, and he wondered if all the women were copies of one another here. He didn't wish to remain around long enough to find out though.

"Saturday's are busy Wendi." Avery reminded, "But I'll see what I can do for you."

"Oh, thank you!" She threw her arms around Avery in an awkward hug that managed to make everyone in the vicinity uncomfortable. Avery patted her back a few times to get the girl to let go, which she finally did, "Good luck playing investigator and you boys ask for my name when you come back. I'll give you a discount." She said, winking at John and Sherlock before she pranced on back to the club.

"I'm sorry, she's a bit daft that one." Avery pacified as she addressed them, "We can go out through the back."

She didn't need to say anymore before Sherlock took off in the direction of forward. His own peace of mind called for more information as he dissected the last remnants of the club as he strode down the corridors of the curious destination. He found his way back to Colin at the backdoor, the man raising his head to look at the three of them. Avery shared a brief hushed word with him, but Sherlock was able to eavesdrop. She was giving him orders to take charge of the club until her return, and some other warnings about the possibility of police officers from the Yard stopping by to investigate. Vicarious was a place full of secrets, but they kept a tight rein on it.

"We can leave." Avery said as Colin held open the door for them to walk through.

Sherlock fell back beside John as she wandered ahead alone to the edge of the pavement. She seemed to have no luck hailing a cab, much to Sherlock's quiet amusement from afar. He could feel John's eyes on him from his peripheral vision, wonder on his face. "Ask your question before we are in her company again."

John looked taken aback, but he didn't hesitate, "Did you know she was a woman?"

"Obviously. I find it difficult to comprehend you did not know that."

"You could have informed me of that before we arrived. That was bloody humiliating." John replied, his ears turning pink again, and not from the chill in the air.

"Was it?" Sherlock asked confounded.

John merely huffed, changing the course of their conversation, "How do you know she's a recovering addict?"

Some of the previous elation from the thrill of night left him. He wished he had an answer that would impress John, but really, it was a much finer line than that. One the his flatmate wouldn't understand, "I knew Harry was a drinker without ever having to meet her. There's nothing different John, I just know."

"And her past relationship with her boss? He wasn't even in the room for you to distinguish that."

Had that ever stopped him before? "What silly things go on in that head of yours John?" He sighed disparagingly.

His friend smile shortly as they stopped beside Avery. In an instant, Sherlock was able to call out for a cab successfully, her eyes glowering at him incredulously as they all muscled their way into the black vehicle. John ended up in the middle with them on either side of him, filling up the backseat while Avery gave the directions to the cabbie. Sherlock turned his attentions to the outside of his city. This was his home, one of the few things he felt any attachment to, and his body came alive with excitement to be dealing with another case as the boredom bled away. Somewhere out there was danger; all he had to do was reach out with his mind to find it.

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**Another one done. So we learnt a little more about Avery, though I didn't want to have Sherlock deduce her right to her face. That would seem obvious and I'm trying to not follow a recipe of how Sherlock stories usually turn out, so hopefully this seems original for you guys. I want to take the time to flesh out the characters and leave them with a bit of mystery that will unravel as time progresses. The rating may change later if the language or content from the crimes gets to be too much. Let me know if there's anything I can work on. Sherlock's POV wasn't easy, but hopefully I will get better at it. **


	3. Stickman and Barstool

**I am blessed to find such lovey readers only this site can provide, and I thank you for all the feedback on what I've done so far and what I can do to make things better.** **Here's another chapter, Avery's first time on the job with John and Sherlock.**

**Thanks to ****Jokester666****, ****hayleyb29****, kaleidoscopelucy, ****Kristenbazinga****, ****Heart of Diamond****, ****Junglecat9****, ****hannahhobnob****, ****Le Pleiade****, ****Morbid DramaQueen10****, ****DoctorGiggelstheMouse**** and joyouslight for the confidence boost! **

**Disclaimer: I only own any OC's and original plot ideas you don't recognize.**

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The cab was mostly silent with the exception of the odd shift of a body moving against the fabric of the seat. This was all well and good for Avery, but it was clear the Doctor was itching to say something. They certainly hadn't turned out quite like she had imagined from her casual viewing of his blog. Watson was something of old-fashioned, what with his coloured jumpers, penny loafers on his feet, and overall gentlemanly mannerisms. The roundness of his face was youthful paired with the tuft of soft blond hair on his head, and not a blemish or spec of facial hair to be found. As he had entered her office, she comically thought he was short like the bar stools in the club, but a tough fellow whose worth could be weighed in how he longed to help people. Typical doctor. A good egg one might say, though not what she was conventionally used too.

She could recall Sherlock's face in the past newspapers she would skim through with her morning coffee, and nothing about him had taken her by surprise. His cheekbones were high and the lines of his face were sharp, making him appear harsh rather than handsome. Nothing was particularly inviting about his personality, but that was okay, she wasn't the friendliest person to come across either. Unlike his flatmate, he was rather tall, his weight stretched out over a thin body like a stick figure dressed in brand names. His pale eyes said as much as his mouth did, continuously stealing information, robbing a person blind of all they thought they knew about themselves. She was already pondering what he had read from her, and was thankful he hadn't spoken up yet. Of course, she was on borrowed time; inevitably he would bombard her with something of a deduction. Lucky for her they were headed out to a crime scene, a spot in which she caught the distinct impression she was not welcomed to go, just by the tension in the cab.

"You have a rather interesting job." John commented politely, though there was a question backing that statement. It was the first thing anyone had said since their departure from Vicarious, and bless him for making an effort.

"I suppose." She replied cryptically, keeping her eyes focused outside the window.

"Honestly you do." He insisted as he turned his body slightly to face her. From the other end of the cab, Sherlock was watching them indiscreetly, but he didn't speak, opting to listen instead, "You had things sorted back there, and people probably see you as one of the men."

She let out a bark of laughter with her head thrown back. It was a deep and rich sound, though unmistakably feminine. It warranted Sherlock's brief attention, him watching her as if she had gone mad while John grew embarrassed about what he had just said, "You're funny John Watson." She said smartly as she settled from her fit.

"I didn't mean it how it sounded. Obviously you aren't gay. Not that it would be a problem if you were; Lord knows we've been accused of that enough." John was rambling, and he frowned at himself for doing so, his hands tightening in his lap as his knuckles turned white.

"Thank you for that reassurance Doctor." She told him, her face absent of any scorn or wrongdoing caused on his part which helped him to relax, "Am I so obviously heterosexual, or did Mr. Holmes tell you that?"

John's mouth flew opened, but nothing was leaving, and he quickly shut it with a wry smile, "Well he might have said something." He said quietly.

"You've had sexual relations with your boss Maxwell." Sherlock cut in from the left.

The cab shot into silence. Well now, she hadn't anticipated that. He was reading too much into the relationship she suspected, as she could make out from his words anyways. Everyone was waiting for her response—or overreaction, judging from the look of concern on John's face—but she sat quietly for a moment, a thoughtful expression as she adjusted her defenses to later be prepared for such blunt allegations from the consulting detective. Even the cabbie was watching them through the mirror, though John looked thoroughly put out by that, "Oiy, watch the road and try not to kill us!"

The cabbie grumbled something unintelligible as his eyes went back to the black streets ahead. No doubt his ears were still tuned to whatever they were saying, but he had enough decency to pretend he wasn't eavesdropping. He wasn't fooling anyone. In that short time, Avery had come up with the best explanation she could conjure to appease whatever notion Sherlock had about her and Max, "Actually, we're just friends. One time we tried to be something more, but it didn't work out that way." That was the lightest, and most censored way she would describe it to two strangers.

Unfortunately Sherlock was inept in the ways of sexual experience, because he was frowning with puzzlement. John was better at handling his flatmate though, coming forward to answer to save her the trouble, "Honestly Sherlock, she's trying to say they never had sex."

"Oh…" His brows came out of their furrowed state in favor of a stoic look. He then scowled again at the news of being informed he was incorrect, "One little mistake." He muttered.

The cab ride couldn't have ended sooner, and for everyone. The cabbie seemed pleased to be rid of them too as they finally stopped at Taylor's street by the building of her flat. Out of courtesy (and as an apology) Avery paid half of the fare with John, calling it even for them having to share in such an awkward night. First Wendi at the club, and now this. She'd be thankful if they got by without any more demeaning occurrences.

She and John caught up to Sherlock at the pelican crossing as they made their way across the street. A section of road and pavement was taped off from the public, but Avery got a sense that the dark stain on the pavement wasn't oil from a car. This was where Taylor had been found, ringed in by a neighbour in the early hours of the morning after the horrific find. Without regard, Sherlock lifted the tape and walked under to get to the centre of the scene. She raised a brow in question at John and he shrugged carefree, "He does that. You just have to get used to it. Normally we would be the first to arrive on a scene with the Yard, but the frantic neighbour caused a ruckus, so the forensics team beat us here before we got a chance to see the state of her body."

"I see." Avery remarked as she fought off a sick feeling at the image of Taylor from the morgue in her mind once again, "Lead the way Doctor."

She was sure his short height could probably walk directly under the tape without having to barely crouch, but he chivalrously held it up with his arm for her to follow. She forced a small smile as she walked along his side, and the effort was greatly appreciated by John as he gave a boyish beam in return. They paused a short distance away from Sherlock, and he appeared to have fallen away from them, into the crevices of his mind. One might have thought he was angered by the hard expression in his eyes, but they were trained solely on the dark patch of pavement, bloodstains left behind by Taylor's corpse, no doubt from her empty eye sockets.

"He's er—in his mind palace." John was quick to explain, though he spoke in a hushed tone so as to not take the risk in interrupting Sherlock, and as respect to the sleeping occupants in the adjacent building. "He'll put together a scene in his head of what occurred here to the victim when her body was left. Lestrade will likely text the pictures from the earlier crime scene anyways, but it's amazing what Sherlock can come up with without any evidence."

Avery watched John as he stared at his friend in admiration. He truly was in awe of the man, and she thought it was completely endearing, the devotion he had to the consulting detective. He was hardly aware of it, but to any outsiders it was plain as day. "He's a true genius, that friend of yours."

"Thank you." John supplied suddenly.

"What for?"

"For not calling him a freak." John frowned slightly as he shook his head of whatever unpleasant thoughts had entered it. "Most people don't find Sherlock to be anything other than a thorn in their side and only because they hate his blatant nature to speak the truth."

"I understand. People love to have secrets, but more importantly to keep them private. I would know. It's my job after all." She stuffed her hands in the pockets of her grey jumper to fend off from the biting chill of the late autumn weather. Her eyes started to dart around the area, hating it, but fascinated all at once, "Do you have any idea which neighbour rang in the call?"

"Lestrade mentioned he was an older fellow who lives alone."

"Mr. Sherman then." Avery concluded.

John turned to look at her quizzically, "You know her neighbours?"

"Well, I'm acquainted with them. Sometimes I'd have to come over here if Taylor's boyfriend was giving her trouble." She explained.

"Trouble?"

"There's more than one explanation, but to make things short, he didn't treat Taylor with exemplary behavior." John's brows pulled together in a mixture of concern and curiosity, "I know what you're thinking, and I can already confirm that it wasn't the boyfriend. For one thing, he's too stupid to not have been caught yet, and he's been avoiding Taylor for the past few weeks now."

"And why is that?"

"Because he owes Max a good sum of money." It seemed like John had forgotten for a moment that she worked in an indecent business, and she almost smiled at the look of understanding on his face as all the pieces started to fit together before his eyes, "Sneaky git knew if he went anywhere near her, she'd give him up to us."

"I suppose that information is kept in your boss's books?" John and Avery flinched back in surprise at Sherlock who was now standing in front of them. Neither of them had heard him leave his statuesque position to move over towards them. He didn't know or care much for boundaries it seemed, because he was right in Avery's face until she had to take a step back while scowling at him.

"Of course." They were back on the subject of Max's books again; something she had thought was dropped back at her office, "Why are you so curious over such a small detail?"

"Hardly a small detail, but I could see how someone like you would make that mistake." He said frankly, and she noticed John shaking his head beside her, "Brendan is in charge of keeping them obviously, as Colin was a recent hire by your boss."

She opened her mouth, ready to ask how he knew that, but thought better of it. He was dangerously observant, and she'd make sure to tread lightly around him, "You don't miss a thing Mr. Holmes."

She might have thought he was pleased with the compliment if his face hadn't have soured, "Sherlock, please." He corrected.

"This is simply a business transaction for me, and I would prefer to call you by your last name."

The mood on the street was tense, though lucky there was John there to prevent any altercations, "Which is fine on both accounts. Are we about ready to move on from here?" He asked reasonably.

"To the flat, yes." Sherlock said aloud, though his eyes lingered on her without any emotion. "Go on Miss. Nash, we're waiting."

Oh honestly, what a child. She wanted to roll her eyes at his ability to stoop to such behavior. It was strange to be addressed by her last name, made her feel like a Sunday school teacher. Maybe his opinion was the same, prompting him to make the request to be called Sherlock. In any case, they weren't going to be swapping war stories over a pint anytime soon though, so why bother with the effort, "Alright." She remarked evenly.

She played with the key in her hand, leading the way for them into the building where Taylor's flat was located. Bit of a rundown area, and the carpets inside were in bad need of replacing by the landlord, along with a handful of other fixtures. The dimly lit lobby was empty and she used another key given by Taylor to unlock the door to the small stairwell in the back corner of the building. There were only five floors, and Taylor's flat was on the third. Sherlock pushed ahead of her, managing silence while taking the steps two at a time as John followed behind with her. He seemed no more embarrassed by Sherlock's behavior now that she was adjusted to it, no longer making faces at his outlandish workings. By no surprise, Sherlock was standing before the door to Taylors flat when they got to the top, a line of tape from the Yard draped across the barrier that he unceremoniously tore off without apology. If they got through the search of the flat without waking the old codger (Mr. Sherman) it would be a miracle. She carefully put the key into the lock and turned the handle, inviting them into the dark of poor Taylor's home.

"No one happened to have brought a torch with them, did they?" John asked as he shut the door behind him. He tested the switch in the first hall with his hand to no avail, "Her lights don't seem to be working."

"That girl always fell behind on her bills." Avery said disappointingly. It wasn't as if Max didn't look after his girls well, but some of them weren't very carefully with the money they earned, and to no one's fault but their own.

Sherlock didn't respond as he allowed himself to venture inside. He must have felt their conversation was wasted on him, which Avery also felt it was. An amazing individual he was. She was a quiet observer, but was secretly curious about what he could come up with here in the flat. Probably wasn't much of a secret actually, since everything was a free-for-all around him, "By mobile light then?" She suggested as she held hers up to create a path with the faint blue glow.

John followed suit as they made their way across the sitting room. Avery had been there enough to know it like the back of her hand. The red settee still had the obnoxious crocket blanket draped across the back, and the picture frame hung above the telly was still crooked. An ugly thing, washed out pastel water coloured flowers in a vase, something one would pick up at a market on discount. Avery simpered at Taylor's taste in decorating while John walked over to the kitchenette. The loo was just off to the right, and the bedroom was down the hall, clearly where Sherlock had gone off to.

"She didn't do much for cleanup I see." John called out as he examined the counter.

Avery followed his voice over, noting the cold bowl of cereal still sitting out, the milk spoiling after being left for over twenty four hours, give or take. A smudge of lipstick was on the spoon, halfway up the handle because Taylor felt she had to deep-throat everything she put into her mouth apparently. Dirty dishes were thrown into the sink, and starting to smell as both she and John held back on gagging with their sleeves up to their noses. He stepped over on the tile to explore the fridge next, only to let out a yelp of surprise as something jumped out at him from above, "Bloody hell, what was that?!" He cried as he brushed a hand over his head with wide eyes.

Avery shined her mobile on his face, before lowering it to the ground where a small creature was hissing, rubbing up against the doctor's trouser, "It's her damn cat." She said with a hint of disgust, "I thought that thing had long since run away."

With agility, it leapt up from the ground on to the counter, slinking over to the dishes, licking some brown substance of a plate with its flat tongue. It was a calico, all patchy colours of black, white and tan from head to tail with long hair that grated on Avery's allergies. She was afraid that Taylor hadn't been very original with the name either, branding it as Lucy.

"Poor thing probably hasn't eaten anything decent." John muttered, getting over his initial shock as he scratched the cat behind its ears. A soft purring erupted into the room from Lucy.

"Then I'll leave you in charge to look after her, at least until you can find her a home. I'm allergic so I'm not taking her." Avery said as she rubbed at her eyes with her sleeve.

"We're not adopting a cat." Sherlock rebuked sharply as he returned from the hallway, his head buried in his phone while he walked without looking where he was going. No doubt he already had the flat mapped out in his head, because he did so without hassle, halting beside her at the edge of the counter while John stood guard over Lucy.

"What did you find out?" John asked, ignoring Sherlock's complete rejection to the animal.

"Nothing I didn't already know." He confirmed as the window in the sitting room caught his eye. He strode over to it, pulling back on the drapes as he looked out the window, down to the street, "Interesting."

"What is?" John asked before she could, so she remained silent.

"The killer was watching her, he knew she lived here." Both Avery and John flanked Sherlock on either side, taking a look out the window to where the crime scene was clearly visible. "They had been acquainted by a chance meeting. Not a friend, but someone she knew, enough at least for him to entice her to come down from the flat. She wasn't murdered outside of this building though. He took her somewhere private, but then returned to dump back here; evident by the way her body was strewn out across the pavement."

Lestrade had sent him pictures on his phone from the scene that he and John had missed out on earlier that same day. The way her body was positioned made it seem like she had been shoved out of a vehicle, her legs bent at odd angles with her arms thrown up over her head. Avery didn't need to see her face, lidless and without eyes, so she frowned at her feet instead, "What time did all of this occur?" She asked lowly.

Sherlock brushed past her, his target the cereal bowl. Lucy watched him carefully, cleaning her paws on the counter as he inhaled the pungent scent of the curdling milk, "This is from yesterday morning, not today. I assume she arrived home late after working at the club. She came here to her flat, changed her clothing but did not bother to clean up in the kitchen or her bedroom by the state of it. Shortly before going to sleep, she would have stopped by the window to shut the drapes, only to discover our unknown murderer outside. They always choose the night hours. Dark, discreet and with no Mr. Sherman awake to see. How dull." He sounded disappointed by the obvious actions of the murderer, but Avery didn't feel bothered by his candor as he continued, "Her work outfit is still discarded on the floor in her bedroom, so she didn't change as she left for downstairs to meet him. He came by car, made up an excuse only her kind would fall for which was her undoing. I believe he was rushed because of the small window left from her returning home late. Clear signs of many mistakes not found with the first two victims. He injected her with a tranquilizer, quick and easy, giving him time to move her back here before dawn. I will need to see the toxicology report from Molly to confirm the drug used."

"But what is his motive, why the eyes?" John prodded as he picked Lucy up under her belly.

"The right questions John." Sherlock said, leaving his flatmate to stare at him oddly, "Besides her dim wit of a boyfriend, are there others who she might have known from her work..?"

"Other clients you mean." Avery completed for him, "None she would have formed a relationship with. Most of the buyers are one-timers. They use a girl once, and we don't see them again. That makes it hard to keep track of who to trust."

"Obviously." Sherlock scoffed.

He turned to say something to John while her phone buzzed in her hand. She quickly read it, ignoring the men in the room with her.

_**Funeral for Taylor on Saturday morning at 11. Why aren't you at the club?**_

—_**MR**_

Her boss certainly worked with haste for the proper arrangements, always a comforting reminder. She gripped her phone tight as she replied back.

_**At Taylor's flat with consulting detective and doctor. I'll head back right now.**_

—_**AN **_

"Sorry to cut this night short gentlemen, but I need to leave." She said as she pocketed her phone.

"Right. I think we've seen all there is, right Sherlock?" John agreed as he looked to his friend.

"Yes." He supplied shortly before heading to the door.

John and Avery followed, sharing a look as they exited the flat. The Yard would return to the flat tomorrow to conduct their search, a futile effort, but John carefully arranged the tape back in order on the door after Avery had locked up. No one would be any wiser to their being there, at least, not by how Sherlock judged the standard of the police. She turned to John, a bemused look on her face as he held Lucy carefully in his coat, "They aren't going to let you in a cab with her."

"We'll see about that." He said confidently, "I think she'll make nice company for our landlady."

Avery merely stared until they quietly made their way down the steps after Sherlock. He appeared impatient by their slow pace and Avery quickly locked the door to the stairwell behind her before breaking out into the cold night again. The air was nipping at her face, her fringe blowing back out of her eyes as the breeze picked up speed. They'd have to walk out to a main street to catch a cab at this hour, the surrounding area dark and muted as the three fell in a straight line. The light of passing streetlamps reflected off of hers and John's blonde hair, but Sherlock was like a walking shadow, absorbing all of the brightness into his dark form as his long stride started to pull ahead of their leisurely pace.

John was watching her again, a question begging at him to say something to her, and that got her back up about what it could be, "Avery, would you like to get a cup of coffee with me sometime?"

She released a long breath until she thought her lungs would collapse. Oh bloody hell. Getting asked out on a date hadn't been what she was expecting. This wasn't good territory for her. It had been forever since she'd done anything of the sort; men just didn't know or want to ask for her company, all save for one. She felt like a fish out of water, her mouth quivering as she tried to come up with a realistic answer until Sherlock cut her off, "By the look on her face she wants to say no, but she also wants to spare your feelings at the same time John."

John looked red with rage and humiliation, a bit pathetic that Avery felt she had to come to his recue, "I can't tomorrow, but I see it in our future." She interjected.

"Great!" John exclaimed, immediately forgetting his grievances with the consulting detective.

However, Sherlock appeared miffed by her resigning to a date with his flatmate. She wasn't even offended by the look he was tossing her, because she saw through what John couldn't. She was intruding in the small circle of their lives, something threatening to him getting back on track after his faked suicide. If they had been without John's company, she probably would've called him out on it, not afraid to tease the consulting detective when most of his responses were childish gestures. Dating wasn't really her forte anyways, so perhaps she would placate Mr. Holmes just this once, "Maybe I will come over and visit your flat sometime to see Lucy at her new home. I rather enjoyed my night out with both of you."

She raised a brow at Sherlock as he was no longer frowning, simply staring at her like she was something of a rarity. Frazzled or not, he turned his eyes back to the road as they arrived at a main strip of street, circulating with activity. It was presumed that he was the best at hailing at cab, so he took to flagging one down while she stood aside with John, him fussing to hide the squirming lump in his coat. No doubt Lucy would be leaving all matter of nasty scratches and snags in the material of his jumper, but he was determined to take her back to their flat. Her eyes were already burning from being in the vicinity of cat hair for more than a few minutes, and she still had a night of work to get through.

Finally a black cab stopped at the edge of the pavement, Avery throwing himself in first so she wouldn't be forced to sit next to John and the cat. Being stuck in the middle obviously wasn't to Sherlock's liking because he was sitting rather tense and barely moving to inhale. Either that or she made him uncomfortable. She suspected that was more likely, because he was as far away from her shoulder as he could get, crowding John into the door on the other end. If the Doctor noticed, he didn't say anything. The cab cut into traffic, with the driver none the wiser about John's hidden animal friend in the front of his coat. Avery let her eyes dart around the interior of the vehicle, her eyes catching the distinct light of a phone in Sherlock's palm. Funny, it looked familiar to her. She then caught on that it was Taylor's mobile, something he must have deemed useful enough to take from the flat.

"Hoping to read her messages are we?" She whispered beside him, raising questions about the phone. "Some people would call that stealing."

"I'm not some people." He said with clear disgust, "And it could be that she has had contact with him. The first two victims were found without phones in their possession, but hers was left behind and out of his reach. The company will cancel the service after a few days, and we would lose the information that could possibly be stored in here."

John was now listening in, grinning slightly at Sherlock's clipped tone as he explained this to her. Avery sat back, a bland look on her face as she continued to watch him try and break the code of the phone. They were going to stop at her work first, seeing as she actually had somewhere to be. John was looking exhausted, but Sherlock seemed as spry as a spring chicken, even if his feathers were ruffled with her presence. What she had said wasn't a lie; she had enjoyed their company, more than she had with any others in a long time. Work relations didn't count.

It didn't seem long before they were back in front of the lights and sounds of Vicarious, Brendan still at the door ushering in the small Thursday crowd while he nodded his head in acknowledgment in her direction. She opened the car door, pausing halfway while getting out, turning back to Sherlock, "Try 0823, it was her birthday in case you were wondering. She always lied about the day."

It was getting painful to continue watching him guess, and she wanted to put him out of his misery. Apparently not the way to go as he was peeved by being told the answer and it warranted an indignant look from him. She gave him a coy smirk before stepping out and closing the door in his face before he could retort. The cab started to pull away, and she could see John's head moving as he shifted to say something to his flatmate. Something scolding no doubt. An interesting pair indeed and she would hold true to that promise of an open invite to tea at their flat, if only to have new amity for a little while longer.

* * *

**A bit more leeway in the case, at least on Taylor's end. And Max spoke his first words through text. I hope people are starting to get a better grasp on Avery, and what kind of person she is. I really don't want to rush anything, so hopefully this is a good pace. If there's anything you want to see improved, let me know and I'll work on it. My next update is back for my Star Trek story, and that will be kind of a pattern of back and forth until that one is completed. **

**Next chapter: Sherlock and John meet Max for the first time.**


	4. Mourning Brunch

**Here's another chapter!**

**Thanks to ****hannahhobnob****, ****Le Pleiade****, ****LookAliveSunshine03****, ****DoctorGiggelstheMouse**** and Tizronell for leaving great and ensightful reviews! **

**Disclaimer: I own only any OC's and original plot ideas you don't recognize**

* * *

It had been two days. Well, a day and a half really. They'd gone with Avery to Taylor's in the middle of the night, so technically speaking it hadn't been all that long. Lucy was fitting in nicely at Baker Street, though even as she had been meant as a present for Mrs. Hudson, she always seemed to be finding her way back upstairs into 221B. John thought he would have a disaster on his hands because of that, but mostly Lucy would sit perched at the edge of the arm on the couch, watching Sherlock pensively, and his flatmate would stare right back. It was a little ridiculous in fact, and John had fallen into the habit of watching them watch each other. It beat anything that was on the telly these days.

After their productive Thursday night, they had returned back to Baker Street with no other evidence to go on, save for the plastic bag of personal items from the victim that Lestrade had dropped off as Sherlock had requested. He merely had glanced at in disinterest before officially stating there was nothing of use towards the case in its contents. The phone hadn't been of much help either, though to John, it seemed Sherlock had lost appeal for the device since Avery had told him the correct passcode. Unfortunately toxicology reports could take days to be completed, so Molly hadn't got back to them yet either. Of course if she could rush it, she would. It was for Sherlock after all.

All of Friday had commenced rather slowly, and it turned out to be gruelling for John. He had no shift at the clinic, so he was forced to stay in the flat with Sherlock. With no more leads on the case, that prodded Sherlock's boredom to surface. The familiar image of Sherlock in his dressing gown on the couch had made him smile in the morning, but by the afternoon he was ready to throw him out the window. In those past three years, he had forgotten how taxing the consulting detective could be with nothing to occupy his mind. Even for a moments escape, John had gone out to pick up milk (again), stopped to chat for a while with Mrs. Hudson, and had even rang Lestrade to see if there was anything worthy enough to get Sherlock out of the flat. That had bought him a good fifty-four minutes, but he had inevitably ended up back at Baker Street. He'd been tempted to text Avery back, as she had left him with her card and number, but getting in touch the next day seemed a tad too desperate. He was also starting to see what Sherlock had meant about her being out of his league, not that he was selling himself short. She was a little more different than what he usually looked for in a date, and it was only too plain that they weren't after the same things. Still, there was no harm in getting to know her, if only as friends, and he did find her attractive in an intimidating kind of way.

By Friday night things had changed when Lestrade had texted information that Taylor's boss had put together a funeral for her the Saturday morning to follow. Sherlock seemed bent on the idea of meeting with the owner of Vicarious, though to what purpose was lost on John. The consulting detective was thorough, working from all angles, and it stood to reason that faceless Max was one of those angles. It didn't mean John was for the idea of crashing a funeral, but Saturday morning had come, and he had risen early while Sherlock was downstairs on the couch, already dressed after a night of no sleep. What did one wear to a funeral when they weren't even acquainted to the deceased? Damned if he knew as he held up different fabrics to himself, but black was a safe colour option, so he stuck with dark trousers and a wool jumper before leaving his room.

"I don't like this idea." He commented, making it known his distaste of the plan as he entered the room to find his flatmate in a staring match with Lucy once again. Sherlock was hunched over on the couch, chin rested upon steepled fingers with Lucy sitting across on their coffee table. "What if they turn us away at the gate?"

"Freedom to mourn, John." Sherlock said without looking up.

"You've hardly mourned a day in your life."

Sherlock scoffed, "Untrue. I mourn every day for the turn our society has taken."

John frowned, knowing there was an insult buried somewhere within that sentence. He stifled a yawn, moving into the kitchen to quickly grab a small bite to eat before they made their way out to the funeral. There wasn't much sense in offering Sherlock anything, not when they were stuffed down deep in a case. The only edible thing he could find were a few slices of bread, and old honey starting to crystalize in the jar. He really needed to go to Tesco again, or this would be the only thing he would survive on. Their milk supply was always disappearing anyway, and though he'd picked up a new fresh one the previous day, he knew they'd be out soon enough. He buttered a thin layer of honey on each slice of toast just as footsteps could be heard coming upstairs to their flat. It sounded like a shuffling pace, so most likely Mrs. Hudson looking for Lucy again.

John stepped out of the kitchen just as Mrs. Hudson popped in through the door, her face breaking into a tender smile at the cat seated in front of Sherlock. Without considering her next move, she walked across the floor to pick up the feline under her belly, only to have Sherlock release a sound of frustration, "Mrs. Hudson!" He snapped in annoyance.

Their elder landlady looked to John, baffled by such an exclamation from Sherlock. John had his toast shoved into his mouth, ripping off a bite and chewing before he could answer her with a rather bizarre explanation, "They were engaged in a staring contest."

"Interference: I win by default." He declared.

"Oh heavens Sherlock." Mrs. Hudson said with a laugh, "I just thought you ought to know there is a cab waiting for you downstairs."

Instantly Sherlock shot up from the couch, throwing on his coat and scarf while John dropped his toast sadly back on to its plate, discarding it on the table. So much for breakfast, he'd have to settle for a late lunch if he was lucky, "Come, John." Sherlock called even though they stood but a few feet from each other.

"Where are you two off too so early?" Mrs. Hudson inquired as she balanced Lucy under one arm, picking up John's plate with the other. Tidying up again it would seem.

"Funeral." Sherlock answered bluntly before he was out the door and down the steps.

Mrs. Hudson stood with a shocked face, her eyes forming an apology, "Oh my, who did you lose dear?"

"Oh no." John immediately refuted, "It's not like that. It's for a case."

"I'm not sure I understand."

That made two of them, "Me either."

He shut the door after him, tackling the stairs in pursuit of Sherlock who was already waiting outside in the cab. There was a foul nip in the air and a light spray of rain, autumn nearly finished as it teetered over the edge into winter. John could see his breath as he warmed his hands, pulling himself into the opened door of the cab that his flatmate had left opened for him. Sherlock read the list of the directions off his phone as they took off into early morning traffic. Honestly, John was feeling choked up about the whole ordeal. The last funeral he had been too was for the man currently occupying the seat next to him. Now he felt embarrassed whenever he thought back to his words at the gravesite, begging his friend to stop being dead when he'd been there to listen. His pride was having a difficult time coming back from that one, and he wasn't used to floundering this often. Sherlock made a point to not address this issue of course, so it would be better if he could just put it out of his mind as well. Too bad he couldn't just delete memories on a whim.

"Shouldn't we be bringing flowers or something?" John wondered, his hands suddenly feeling empty without anything to occupy them.

"No time for that, we're late already."

Not only were they showing up to a funeral uninvited, but they would be showing late. Not that he was insecure, but John liked for people to have a good impression of him, and he wondered what Avery's reaction would be upon their arrival. He was tempted to text her in warning, but Sherlock would know what he was up to, and it wouldn't be the first time he would lose his phone to the consulting detective. With nothing better to do, he kept his gaze outside, wishing time would go by faster, or at least the traffic. It was mind-numbingly dull to watch the other vehicles pass by while the windows were pelted with water droplets. Such an assessment was something Sherlock would say, and some of those little habits were still rubbing off on him occasionally.

As early as it was, they were able to make good time through the streets of London. Nothing but workaholic's and youth out at this hour. It was all starting to feel like a very familiar journey, and John cursed the site of the cemetery as they stopped just a block away from its entrance. He didn't even hesitate to pay the fare this time, and he was out of the cab at Sherlock's side as they flew under the rain that had now transformed from drizzle to a steady flow. Over the low markers of the gravesites, it was easy to spot a group of people standing in a circle in ceremony, clothed in black with umbrella's creating a perfect tent to stop the water over their heads. It was a graveside funeral with maybe ten people present. John could make out the figures of the two bouncers from the club, still thick with muscle under their suits. Most of the company were women, likely the other girls from the club and he recognized Wendi's startling hair poking out beneath her wide brimmed hat. There was a man there also, and John assumed him to be Max because Avery was standing beside him, holding an umbrella over both of them.

**"To heaven I lift my waiting eyes; There all my hopes are laid; The Lord that build the earth and skies, Is my perpetual aid."**

The sermon was read aloud, the priest only pausing when he was disrupted by the sound of their wet footsteps approaching on the grass. All eyes turned to them, though John and Sherlock faced Avery and Max, one of whom was frowning with mistrust. Avery quickly whispered something in Max's ear to ease whatever tension he felt with their arrival, and she shot them a brief smile as Colin and Brendan flanked them on either side with umbrella's to shelter them from the rain. Everyone turned their attention back to the service, but John could see Sherlock from the corner of his eye, more preoccupied with Avery and her boss rather than what sermon was being reciting. John was a little nonplussed too, but over different things than what Sherlock was likely deducing. Avery looked so different outside of her job, more feminine in fact. While she didn't don a posh frock like the other women, she came in black dress trousers and a blazer to match. Her lips were painted red and her eyes lined dark, fighting back grief so her make-up wouldn't run. It appeared that she was lost and reluctant in her own garb, drawing strength from the people around her. John thought she might have even been glad to see them judging from her expression when they had arrived, but she kept her grey eyes forward, the light fading once more.

**"Come to Me, all you who labour and are heavy lade, and I will give you rest. Take My yoke upon you and learn from Me, for I am gentle and lowly in heart, an you will find rest for your souls. For My yoke is easy and My burden is light." **

As the sermon was carried on, John grew curious about Max, something no doubt Sherlock would share in. He was a surprise wrapped in a lead coloured trench coat with a walking stick balanced in his left palm. His hair was clipped short and was dark with burning flecks of red within if the light caught it just right. If John had to guess, he'd say he was about the same height as Sherlock, though not quite as trim as his flatmate. Then again, Max probably knew a proper meal when he saw one. He didn't have a trace of facial hair. Not that it would have suited with his expensive taste in clothing. The thing attracting the most attention, peeking from beneath the collar of his coat was a thin gold tie. What an odd choice for a funeral.

**"May the restless dead find sleep, and may the light of our remembering, guide them to an everlasting peace."**

The ceremony concluded as the casket was slowly lowered into the ground. Sherlock was growing anxious as the sound of tears and sniffling from the women grew to a new height. John was uncomfortable too, but only because his eyes kept searching out through the vast cemetery, remembering that familiar gravestone with his friend's name carved in the marble making him sick. His breathing turned heavy as he started to inhale greedily for air, his coat squeezing tighter in a vice-like grip around his body.

"John?" A cold hand was touching the side of his face, and he snapped out of his reverie to find it was now Avery holding an Umbrella over his head. Sherlock was beside her, all three of them sharing a space while everyone else were headed out from the service. It was Avery's long and steely fingers against his cheek, cold and damp from the rain and the nails still black. Her brow was furrowed into concern for him as was Sherlock's, though the consulting detective did a much better job of hiding the feeling quickly. "Are you alright?" She asked.

"Fine." His voice was scratchy. Okay, so maybe he wasn't doing all that well, and he was doing a poor job of convincing them of otherwise. "The service is over?"

"Yes." Avery replied, taking her hand away while she adjusted the umbrella over their heads, "Thank you both for coming, even if it was only to scope out my boss." She gave Sherlock a knowing look which he returned with a scowl.

"Hardly any scoping. Last name Renke, he's of German descent, but has lived in London for most of his life. Arrived in London as a child, and has not since considered leaving because of his financial success. Has never been married, but has a child, not a toddler though, I'd say age is between nine and twelve. Because of his unsavory business, the child is sent away to a private school, because it's safer and he can afford to. A son then. Your boss has not bothered to find a wife or companion for the sake of a daughter to have a female presence in its life, so the child is a son."

John had been forgotten for a moment as Avery had turned to listen to Sherlock, her eyes slightly widened in surprise, and she let her lips fall into a small smirk, "Wow. You have me impressed again Mr. Holmes."

"Do I have everything correct?"

"Nearly everything. Max was married shortly; he just never wore a ring."

Sherlock looked disgruntled, "There's always something."

"Either way, he would be impressed by that deduction, and suffice it to say I have been told to invite you to brunch this morning. You may decline of course, though it seems you have been searching for this meeting to happen."

"I don't eat while on a case." Sherlock said frankly.

"Then come for the conversation." Avery insisted rather pleasantly. John wondered if her boss had told her to be friendly, or if she was genuinely different outside of her work. She certainly felt like a breath of fresh air, and Lestrade has said something about her appearing skittish in the morgue, thus explaining her strange mood the first time they had been acquainted. "We both know you want to say yes, so why fight it?"

"I don't like to be told what to do." Sherlock spoke at length.

She nodded with a look of gentle understanding, "Nor do I Mr. Holmes, which is why I'm inviting you."

Sherlock looked back at John, finally making him a part of the debate again. It was morning brunch, a place with food, so he was more than willing to agree to go after an early outing in the rain. He hadn't even finished his toast before leaving. His loafers were starting to flood, and he either needed to get inside, or find himself a pair of wellies, "It might help with the case Sherlock."

Sherlock complied with an indifferent look, "Shall we take a cab then."

"You can ride there with us. It's only going to be me and Max with a guest he is meeting with." Avery explained as they started to follow after the funeral party leaving the cemetery. Each step was a relief for John, his body relaxing as he watched the employees of Vicarious going their separate ways. Wendi turned back to wave at him and Sherlock, John groaning while Sherlock pretended not to notice her. Avery let out a laugh at that, "She's been talking about you two nonstop."

"Charming." Sherlock deadpanned.

Max was standing on the pavement, another gentleman holding an umbrella over his head for him as they stood by the side of an expensive black car. He was clearly a privileged man, and it made John feel underdressed for wherever they were going for brunch. He became even more mortified when he realised the man standing beside Max was his chauffeur, "I'll be back in just a moment gentlemen." Avery spoke, handing off the umbrella to Sherlock whose height was more suited to hold it over both of them.

They watched as she ran through the rain—in a pair of tan plimsolls that added to her height—ducking in beside her boss as they exchanged words. Sherlock was frowning again, his head turned up to the sky as they stood in waiting, "Why does she call you by your name?"

"What?" John asked in bemusement.

"She called you John."

He had to think back for a moment before he could recall his daydreaming, and Avery being there to snap him out of it. She had called him John, "She did, didn't she?"

Sherlock huffed, "Flattery John?"

"Oh shut it. You're just jealous because I'm not a business transaction like you are." John said, using Avery's words from two nights ago.

"I don't get jealous John."

But by the annoyance marring his face, it seemed he was feeling something, "Could've fooled me." John whispered with a grin.

Avery was returning with her boss beside her, a discussion that was going to take place before they left anywhere in Max's impressive car it seemed. As he came closer, John got a better look of his face, and was quite startled by the severe look that was naturally occurring. It wasn't any wonder that he could handle himself in the nightclub business. While he might have dressed prim and proper, the loathsome look in his blue eyes was enough to make a grown man cower. Avery's stance around Max was also different: protective even, which must have been a part of her job as head of security. There was something else about Max though. His gait was uneven as he used his walking stick for support, not a fashion statement, and suddenly John understood why everyone else was holding the umbrella for him. Max had multiple sclerosis.

Max put on a false smile as he approached, it looking more like an unpleasant grin rather than sincere happiness. He held out his hand, first introducing himself to Sherlock, "It is good to finally meet you Mr. Holmes."

"Sherlock, please." He persisted, ignoring the wry smile on Avery's face at that request, "Saxony, German?"

Max made a gesture of acknowledgement, "Good ear Sherlock. Born in Dresden." There was a hint of an accent, but nothing that John could pick up on. He sounded well enough like an Englishman, but Sherlock would know the difference. "And you must be the Doctor?"

"John Watson, yes." John said, falling into a loose handshake while keeping eye contact that he was able to return after so many formal greetings in the military.

"It is my pleasure to meet you both. I am sorry if my absence has put you at an inconvenience, but I had other matters to attend to."

"A function for your son's school." Sherlock cut in.

Max looked taken aback, though he didn't let on about his surprise for long, "I see why Avery was singing your praises. We all wondered what had put a smile on her face." He made it sound as if that was a rare thing, for Avery to smile. She was looking apathetic again (embarrassed too), so maybe John understood what he was talking about, "I would very much like to allow for a conversation to commence so I may answer any questions you have. I suspect you have agreed to my invitation for brunch?"

"Yes, we'd love to join you." John agreed when Sherlock didn't respond.

"Wonderful." He said favorably while fixing his gold tie, his fingers fumbling oddly as if he couldn't feel them. He wasn't the kind of man you'd share your pity for, and his pride wouldn't allow for another man to do his job. That's why he had Avery. "We'll be on our way then."

They followed down the pavement to the car, the chauffeur opening the passenger side for Max to ride up front, leaving for the three of them to ride in the back. Avery ended up in the middle this time, though things weren't as stiff as they'd been in the cab. Without knowing their location, they headed off through the dreary rain. John wasn't sure if he should attempt conversation, luckily Avery made that decision for him, "I forgot to ask, how Lucy is?"

"She's fitting in well. Mrs. Hudson spoils her with milk. I fear she's already gained five pounds." John commented.

"I'm glad. She had needed a new home for a while now." Avery said, crossing her legs carefully, drawing John's attention to how long they looked in the tan coloured heels.

Sherlock didn't appear to be listening, his fingers drumming up a tune against his knee as he observed the interior of the luxury car, his look suspicious as he glanced out of the shaded windows, "Where are we going?"

"A gentlemen's club." Avery replied, her face turning towards his as she noted his unease that John had also been studying.

"And who are we meeting with?" He spat in irritation.

"A friend of mine, Sherlock." Max answered from the front, "I suspect you know him."

Avery pursed her lips as she ran a hand back through her short hair, "You figure things out much too quickly. We aren't even a third of the way there."

"It would have cut the travel time in half if your driver had taken that last turn on the left we passed." Sherlock jibed.

"Hold on, I'm confused. I still don't know who we are meeting with." John interjected with chagrin at being ignored with his presence in the back with them.

"Honestly John, if you haven't figured out where we're going by now, you never will." Sherlock exclaimed rudely, his face screwed up into a sneer.

"We're going to the Diogenes club, John." Avery added quietly.

John's eyes widened, "Wait, so we're meeting with—"

"Yes John." Sherlock interjected, "It seems Max's good friend is my very own brother."

There wasn't a long enough car ride in the world in which John would be prepared to sit down for morning brunch with Mycroft Holmes. Wouldn't be much of a brunch at all, more like tea, brandy and insults shared between the two brothers. John's stomach rumbled sadly in the muted silence of the car, he too now displeased that he'd been tricked into a series of horrible circumstances. It was only one in the afternoon, and already he wanted to go back home to Baker Street, opting for Sherlock to shoot holes in the wall rather than this forthcoming courtship of sibling rivalry. John didn't exactly want to see Mycroft either, but he could be civil for the sake of where they were going. Max hadn't done anything to them to earn their misgivings with the elder Holmes either, and it seemed Avery was attempting to smooth things over for them too, which was encouraging. He made a mental note to himself about later when he would go out to Tesco to pick up more nicotine patches for Sherlock. After a meeting with Mycroft, he'd have a three patch problem on his hands.

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**Not gonna lie, I'm nervous to write for Mycroft next chapter. He's a bit of an odd duck, so hopefully I get him right. Also, next chapter I plan on having a scene where only Avery and Sherlock talk, as I start to worm them into a friendship zone. She seems to tolerate him well enough, and Sherlock will make it his goal to stop with that silly 'Mr. Holmes' nonsense she's keeping up with calling him. I have a lot on want to explore about her too (her addiction, and someone/something from her past that she's keeping secret) Max will get more time again too, so hopefully he seems like a character worth getting to know. I love writing in John's POV so this was a fun chapter for me, and I hope everyone enjoyed.**

**Side note: the last bolded quote by the priest was from London Hymn by Josh Groban. It's so lovely, that I wanted to have that there. **


	5. This Taste

**Another chapter, hope you enjoy!**

**Thanks to Kristenbazinga, DoctorGiggelstheMouse, hannahhobnob, Sorceress of the Trees, blown-transistor, JobanaBallack, Jeralee and Le Pleiade for taking the time to give their kind words!**

**Disclaimer: I only own any OC's and original plot ideas you don't recognize.**

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Driving to the Diogenes club to await a confrontation with his brother hadn't exactly been a part of his plan for the day, or any day for that matter. Not that he had any reason to feud with his portly sibling, Mycroft had after all, came through on assisting to take down Moriarty's criminal web for the last three years. What could his pencil pushing, desk jockey of a brother share in common with Max Renke of all people? Not a penchant to abide by the laws obviously, so they must run in the same social circle, driven by finical success and a sense of superiority. Would heavy discussions of politics and scandal ensue around the thick air of the Diogenes club? If so, how dull a morning he had to look forward too. He was quick to set such thoughts aside as he focused on the people sharing the space of the car.

John was looking thoroughly annoyed as time progressed. Was it the short notice of being lured into a visit with Mycroft, or the fact that he had had little food to digest before leaving? He quickly decided it was the matter of the visit. Just as Molly had known, Mycroft had also been in on the plan of his faked suicide, and his Doctor appeared disgruntled by those select few people. Sherlock felt he had little to offer in terms of words of comfort for John. Couldn't he just forget about that and move on already? Sherlock certainly had. Wasn't worth sulking over something that hadn't even happened, yet John hadn't let go. His reaction at the cemetery was evidence of that; even Avery had witness his flatmate in distress.

He took to watching her through the reflection in the shaded window. Odd one. He wanted to turn a blind eye to her, write her off as normal, ordinary, boring, and he supposed she could be those things, if only that she wasn't. Not quite. There was a certain quality that he felt himself in favour of observing. A similarity in their flaws to turn to narcotics. What could her reasons possibly be for that? He loved the sense of numb and quiet they brought to his mind, but that wasn't her Achilles heel. She was certainly no sociopathic genius. Clever maybe, and focused, but of a calibre that could be found almost anywhere. Why the need for escape? He found that many drug abusers were weak of moral fibre, but Avery didn't strike him as the type simply because of her personality, and her bizarre career to assist a diseased club owner. She didn't fuss in her seat, making no movements with her eyes tracked forward, breathing tuned to the muted silence in the car. A figure of reserved sentiment. She cared from afar, letting slip three times, only noticeable to him. First for her deceased co-worker, then for John at the cemetery and of course for Max. She was quite a contradictory, and that was interesting.

"We have arrived." Max announced pleasantly as he sat up in his seat.

John let out a conquered groan, "Couldn't I just stay in the car, watch over her, if you follow me?" He asked an underlying tone of pleading colouring his words.

"No need to be polite Doctor. That's what Stanley is here for." The driver nodded in acknowledgment as Max was so kind to point this out.

John begrudgingly accepted that there was no avoiding this visit and he popped opened the door of the car, letting himself out as Avery followed. Sherlock was the last to leave, something that never occurred when he would share a taxi with John. Such a waste to own a car in London. Their black cab was more than adequate to get you where you needed on time, and driving was such a tedious hassle that he wouldn't possibly waste his time on the effort.

Stanley the driver stayed by the car as the four of them assumed a small group towards the entrance. The Diogenes club was never a hive of activity, and only because the people who presided there where much like his brother. Not excitable in the least, sitting in Wedgewood wingback chairs, sipping Port or Cognac over long discussions on politics that they felt were so captivating. Sherlock was regretting being there after reminding himself of the displeasure that found him in that place, leaving him in a mood of derision all day. It ended up with Max and Avery leading the way with him and John falling behind them. The staff and other members of the club looked to Max with familiarity, that is, when they could tear themselves away from whatever had them occupied. A fair few games of cribbage had started, and so early in the morning that one would mistake them for having nothing better to do. Sherlock of course assumed that was the life of a politician.

It wasn't long before they found themselves walking towards a familiar figure, his corpulent brother (another failed diet it seemed) filling out the chair he was seated at before a round oak table between the seats. A Manchester table lamp was off to his right, and placed delicately against the wall was the tall umbrella he always wielded. Mycroft's assistant 'Anthea', or whatever name she went by those days, was beside him, face buried in her phone, long fingers mashing away at the keys while she altogether ignored the happenings in the room. An exultant smile came over Mycroft's face, not lasting long enough to make him appear pleasant, but the greeting was only spent on Max. He was still dreary in demeanor, composed in all black from the buttons on his waistcoat, to the laces of his shoes. One might mistake him of being the one to have just come from a funeral instead of his guests.

"It is good to see you again, Max." Mycroft greeted formally as he indicated for them to take a seat. He didn't so much as spare a greeting with Sherlock, not that there was much love lost between them.

"I agree." Max settled into his chair, leaning his walking stick up against the table beside him before Avery even thought to sit down. She waited for him to be to be settled before she brought herself down in the chair next to her boss, 'Anthea' on her other side. "You have been kept busy I hear." Max said respectfully.

"Fairly steady." Mycroft agreed, "And you are well I trust Miss Avery?"

She folded her hands neatly in her lap, intending to appear as polite, but falling short on the delivery, "Of course Mycroft."

Sherlock had watched her exchange with his brother curiously, before growing irritated that she knew him well enough as to be on a first name basis. He breathed through his nose, controlling the childish urge to want to snap at everyone present. He wouldn't be able to get any amount of thinking done in this place. It was so loud, he wanted everything to shut up and remain still until his permission was given to do otherwise. He didn't belong there, and he wanted to leave just as soon as he was able.

"I see you have made new friends." Mycroft continued, "I had hoped my brother would sign on to the case of your girl."

"As was I. He is as every bit as you described him to be." Max conversed.

Sherlock frowned as both he and John tried to meet Avery's fleeting gaze. So it was more than just John's blog. How much was known to Max and his head of security about them? His blatherskite of a brother was unaffected, his face placid as he listened to Max, "And brother, how have you been keeping?"

The attention had shifted to Sherlock much to his disappointment. "Out of trouble." He answered smartly, just to goad his brother.

"I'm sure Doctor Watson can give testament on whether or not that is true." Mycroft turned his sharp beak of a nose in the direction of his flatmate who had been content to sit overlooked until now, "I see you've decided on a moustache John."

"What of it?" John accused hotly, sensing a trap.

"I meant no offense. I am sure it has suited you well these past few weeks, and you look much more your age now."

John took the backhanded compliment in stride, smiling tightly, "Thank you. I suppose I should be in your debt for keeping up with Sherlock's death as well."

Mycroft was only mildly surprised by John's outburst, gazing at him with the minimal amount of wonder, "I thought we might come to this little snag. He has been alive now for two months John, which is more than enough time for you to have learned the truth to give you closure."

Sherlock sneered to himself, hating that he had just had this similar assessment in the car over to the club. This only seemed to cause his Doctor to unravel into a further mess of anger at Mycroft, "Give me closure? I thought he was dead, and to my face, you let me believe that for three years! All because of that psychopath and his obsession with Sherlock. I'm viable to throw my shoe at the next person I see wearing a Westwood suit."

John hadn't realized he had raised his voice, or that he was leaning forward over the table from his chair. His tiny fists of fury were clenched together over the egg shell coloured table cloth, looking like he wanted to leap at his brother's throat which amused Sherlock greatly. Mycroft calmly incurred John's wrath, even with the few onlookers they had attracted. 'Anthea', who had been sharing in quiet conversation with Avery, had even stopped with the business on her phone to listen intently.

"I couldn't agree more Doctor." Max interrupted the silence with a bland smile, "I had rid my wardrobe of Westwood, having lost my liking for the brand some time ago."

"You—" John stumbled on his words as he sat back down in his chair, "You knew Moriarty?" The name was said in a whisper, as if it had the power to summon the dead should it be uttered a decibel higher.

"Only briefly, and it was before anything had been heard about you Sherlock." Max said as he looked at him, "He went by something else at the time, not that it should be a surprise. He was the man with many names. He was interested in my club, or rather, as it for a place of business to sell narcotics with a client of his so long as I cut him a percentage of the profits. I declined for personal reasons."

"Out of respect for Miss Nash's past drug addiction to heroine." Sherlock couldn't help but interject. It was unsettling to find Max and Avery was acquainted to many of the people in his life, only to have never crossed paths with either of them until his recent case. It was like the feeling of being left out of the loop of a secret, and how he hated that.

The seats to which they occupied had fallen quiet, and he noticed how Avery had winced in her spot. No one was shocked by this revelation, except maybe John who was only aware of what he had informed him of two nights ago. His flatmate seemed interested in seeing her arms for track marks, which Sherlock knew there wouldn't be any found there.

"Might I be excused for a moment?" She asked for permission even though she was halfway raised out of her chair. Mycroft pulled her aside for a moment, whispering something in her ear to which she answered with a nod before leaving. She didn't look in anyone's direction as she left in a hurried pace through the club.

"Have I said something wrong?" He asked, turning to John with a furrowed brow.

"Oh Sherlock, a bit not good." John replied with a sigh.

"Hardly the time of day for that discussion Sherlock." Mycroft chirped snidely.

"Oh do shut up." Was the answered he received.

"It's strange to see you look down on someone over this." Mycroft continued, well aware that his brother looked down on most people for being as simple as normal, "I remember having to drag you from clinic to clinic, hair in disarray, covered in filth with clothes stained in sickness from the many times you were found on the floor of the loo. Poor mummy never did quite get over that."

John was visibly anxious to be present as Mycroft spewed details of his past addiction. It was really the only thing Sherlock never shared with anyone, not even John. The reminder of those times grounded him, tethering him to the earth a bit better where he felt so human. So normal. "Only because she saw me as her failure."

"Oh come off it Sherlock, not everything is about you. She felt that she failed you because she loved you, not your misguided thoughts on her apparent material reasons." Mycroft retorted indifferently, "You've put me off of my afternoon brandy."

"She'll get over it. Let's not make mountains out of molehills." Max remarked, acting as mediator before Sherlock had the chance to open up into another disagreement with his brother, "Avery's hard, not broken." And as Sherlock would come to learn later, that sentence was perfectly apt to describe her.

Mycroft and Max started in on another conversation, about a benefit or gala that Max apparently gave money to every year, the previous grievances of the table forgotten. So they both ran in the same social circle, at least, outside of their work, as he first assumed. Sherlock was growing bored to just sit there and waste away on weak tea that was served to them. The atmosphere was tarnished, and he didn't want to share the same breathing air as his brother. He hastily rose from his seat, ignoring the questioning look John had tossed him as he made his exit from the room of the Diogenes club. He wouldn't apologize to her, he just wanted fresh air. Any excuse to leave the sorry morning he had to share with Mycroft. The scent of leather and liquor followed him outside of the club, and he didn't have to spend meager time on searching out Avery. Her back was up against the wall of the building, a cigarette placed between her fingers as she stood with one leg crossed over the other, "That only took you six minutes and twenty-three seconds." She said without looking at him.

"I'm not going to apologize." He frowned as a little white wisp of smoke found its way over to him, dancing around his nose before slipping away, lost to the wind. He had no patches, and he was quite enticed by the scent, imagining the taste of tar in his mouth from just one drag.

"I'm glad, or else my image of you would be blown." She pushed off of the wall, taking notice of how his eyes followed the cigarette in her hand, "Your brother was right to warn me."

He let out an annoyed scoff. So that's what Mycroft had whispered to her; no cigarettes for him. We'll see about that. He was feeling rebellious after that little spat, "He is never right intentionally, I assure you."

Avery hummed her answer, "You're quite alike, you and him."

"We are nothing alike." He refuted.

She didn't reply to that, "When did you last quit smoking."

"Nine days ago." He didn't falter as he recalled his last secret cigarette hidden from John.

She sighed as she dug out a pack, putting a second cigarette into her mouth as she fired it off with her lighter. Her hand waved, offering it before him with her raised brow as she waited for him to take it, "I don't feel guilty giving this to you because you suck at quitting almost as bad as I do." She explained.

Now who could argue with that logic? Certainly not him at the moment when she offered it up to him freely. He took the fag from her hand, not feeling quite as shameful as he should when it touched his lips, and he felt the tension leave his body. She forced a small smile as she returned to her half-finished one, them standing happily in shared silence. As the smoke filled his lungs, he realized there was another taste on his tongue. The Earl Greyer black tea Avery has been sipping. Also, a line of her red lipstick was left behind on the brim of the filter from where she had placed it between her lips. Maybe because his body had been yearning for a smoke was why he didn't care about these details, and he easily brought it up back to his lips again for another drag.

"What gave me away about my addiction?" She asked pointedly.

"Do you ask because you have no visible track marks on your arms to identify you as a previous user, or because you are ashamed to let the past define you?"

"I don't let it define me." She said indignantly before adding as an afterthought, "But I am careful to hide it."

"You don't drink either."

"No. I take sobriety very seriously."

"And your injection sites aren't somewhere visible. Somewhere on your thighs, between the toes, or the corners of your eyes?"

He expected her to snap at him, but he was rewarded with mostly no reaction at all save for the sagging of her shoulders, "It's amazing how you can still find the time to try and be vain as an addict, even when you're in too much of a stupor from a fix for it to matter. I guess you could say I also didn't want to get caught, even when the other signs were obvious."

Hiding because of guilt and sentiment. Besides Mycroft sticking his nose into his business, his time of addiction had been on his own terms with no one to watch him fall, and he hadn't worried over such petty things. Even if his family had been more actively involved, it likely would not have changed anything for him, "You were around your family, but they were also a reason for your addiction."

"It was a long time ago." She said brusquely as she finished her cigarette, stepping on the butt with the toe of her plimsoll. "Maybe that will be my last one ever."

Likely not. How many times had he also told himself that exact same thing, even when he had been an avid chain-smoker? He watched her around the smoke plumes trailing from the end of his cigarette. She had her arms wrapped around herself, the air still damp and cold after the morning rain. Her eyes remained forward, not looking at much of anything, but not ignoring him either. She didn't force conversation which others probably mistook for a rude trait, but why blither on about nonsense when there was nothing left to be said? He hadn't finished his say however, and it looked like he would have to break his own silence this time, "What did you think of him?"

"Of James Moriarty?" She broke out of her reverie to face him, "An off-putting narcissist, possible metrosexual, and a child to deal with. He didn't like me, which he made known on several occasions in the few incidences we were forced in the same vicinity. As I recall, he made comments about how I was either voluntarily attempting to be a man, or a lesbian because of my haircut, but I know he was just being an obnoxious prick." But the words had bothered her, because she unconsciously ran her nails through her yellow locks. "The world is better without him."

He agreed, carefully stowing away her words in his mind palace for further consideration. Moriarty didn't hate out of habit, nor did he love anything. Sherlock had found that the man's interactions with people were hot and cold. Avery wasn't being completely honest, which he anticipated, but he was vexed that he couldn't see through to the truth. His eyes tried to pull anything off of her, and just when he thought to pause in his observing, he noticed one small detail. A minute thing, barely there or important to anyone who would look her way, but to him, it might as well have been screaming to the heavens. A thin silver chain was around her neck, tucked into the top of her blouse so that whatever pendant or object that was at the end was concealed. He might have made a reach if it wouldn't have appeared indecent to do so. John's voice was in his head, something about thinking through and resisting his unsavory actions before he went through with them. He supposed grabbing at a lady's chest to whom he was only acquainted with was one of those things, not that he understood why.

Thinking of his flatmate, he was suddenly approaching them through the doors, and Sherlock was quick to snuff out the rest of his cigarette beneath his shoe before John could notice, "Thank you very much for leaving me up there with them!" He bit out at the two of them.

Avery seemed to find John's little spastic fits amusing for some reason, her lip curling up at the corner, resisting a smile, "I'm sorry John. I forget how long and terrible these meetings can be."

"I won't make that mistake again." He replied sourly, "And you, don't you answer your phone? Lestrade was trying to reach you, but he had to call me instead. Another body has been found."

Having been distracted by the smoking and conversation with Avery, he hadn't felt it go off in his pocket. He grew excited as his eyes skimmed over the details of the texts (as well as the angry, bolded ones) Lestrade had sent him. His boredom had come to a swift end. Another body, how stimulating!, "We are leaving." They'd have to go by cab this time, much more to his preference.

"Are you coming Avery?" John asked before he even immediately started to follow him.

She shook her head, her eyes smiling for her, "No, I can't leave Max whenever he is out in the city alone. If you are at your flat before dark, I might be able to come see you for that tea you promised me before work."

"I have your number." John replied, looking less displeased than he had before as he traveled down the pavement after Sherlock.

"Thank you again for coming to the funeral. Goodbye John. Mr. Holmes." She formally bid farewell before she disappeared back into the Diogenes club.

Sherlock grimaced with his back to the building at once again having heard the use of his last name. He would have to change that occurrence from repeating. Drove him mad to be called as such. John didn't hide his cheeky grin well either as he strode up beside him, waiting for a hailed cab for them, "So you apologized then?"

Sherlock let out a disdainful huff, "Honestly John, it's as if you don't know me by now." He said as he flew into the car that had stopped for them at the edge of the pavement. He gave out the directions from Lestrade to the driver as John settled in beside him.

"I think I know you enough to know when you're trying to hide something." He inhaled the air of the cab as they started into traffic. Sherlock started to tap his fingers against his knee, expecting John's next question, "Did you smoke?"

"Only one." He insisted.

John might have been annoyed if it wasn't for his curiosity being piqued, "Is she going to be a bad habit for you?"

"I have been told that my life is one bad habit." He supplied offhandedly, "I suppose I owe you an apology John."

"Really?" His flatmate inquired suspiciously.

"Yes, when I said your efforts in attempt to date her were wasted because of your differences. It would appear you were already too late. She was in love with someone else."

John's face fell slightly, and Sherlock knew it didn't have anything to do with Avery. He had been hoping for an apology for everything else. The fall, the suicide, the last three years wasted. Sherlock wouldn't say he was sorry. He couldn't. He had done so out of necessity, no deed was ever wasteful in his life, and John should have suspected as such from his death as well, even if he had been alive and…keeping. He felt no regrets, not when he thought of John, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade, their lives in the balance because of his. Still his Doctor continued to let the little black cloud of the past follow them around.

Straightening his face and forcing a brave smile, John returned to topic, "You said was. Do you have any idea who with?"

It was then that came the words he hated to admit to. They turned into poison and ash on his tongue, thick and dry as it stuck to the roof of his mouth. He halted, blinking once, and then again as his lips tried to form the short sentence into the air of the cab. With some strain and a hard voice he answered, "I don't know."

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**A little bit more info on Avery to keep you thinking. I won't be revealing her story right away because we're moving back to the case again. Just to be clear, it doesn't have anything to do with Jim. I wouldn't attempt to write him as a romantic figure, I'll leave that to the other expert writers on here. Still Max and Avery have an interesting past that coincides with Sherlock's, so we'll have to see how that turns out. Hope Mycroft was written OK, I didn't really feel this was all that great, but I'll let you guys decided what I could improve on. **

**Next chapter: another body is found, and Avery has her first tea time at Baker Street. **


	6. Luck and Jazz

**Sorry for the delay and I hope this chapter works out well for you guys. I was a little hesitant about its overall feel.**

**Thanks to ****Le Pleiade****, ****hannahhobnob****, ****blown-transistor****, ****DoctorGiggelstheMouse**** and joyouslight **

**Disclaimer: I only own any OC's and original plot ideas you don't recognize**

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John got over his hunger and annoyance pretty quickly in the cab ride over to the crime scene. Had he been anticipating an apology after these last two months? Yes, and he was under the impression that Sherlock had known that, as he did with anything John was feeling. Distractions took over, and all of that was pushed aside once again in favour of another murder, as well as the mystery of the head of security for Vicarious. He didn't feel it was any of their business about who she might or might not have been in love with, though once Sherlock had pointed this fact out, he was filled with curiosity to know. Hopefully that didn't come off as intrusive on his part and it wasn't as if he made a habit of sticking his nose into other's private matters, past or present. It was either an odd coincidence that Max had had dealings with Moriarty in the past, or something larger was at play, shrinking their world in around them.

Of course, after that terrible morning with Mycroft, it felt like they were trapped in a box. He could forgive Sherlock succumbing to nicotine cravings just this once, not wanting to badger him about that when his brother had started in about his drug addiction at the table. Refusing to be embarrassed, John had listened with a critical ear, never adding his two cents or joining in the discussion. His mind had made up an understanding a long time ago about Sherlock's past of dabbling into narcotics. Living with his friend, he figured it had to be a burden on Sherlock at least sometimes that his mind couldn't settle down just for a moment for him to feel like everyone else. A younger Sherlock had turned to drugs, but this wasn't the consulting detective John knew, and had come to love as his best friend. It was a grey area of his past, an experience, and he must have taken something from it. John had Harry in his life, a bloody alcoholic, and if he could handle that, than he certainly didn't feel the need to remind Sherlock of his addiction.

Their day only continued to grow worse though. After stepping out of the cab at a rather odd strip of town John was unfamiliar with, they met up with Lestrade and the forensics team who was already present on scene. Sherlock was rarely upset over anything, but when they came to the body, something was amiss over his reserved reaction that John was able to notice. Lestrade had said that the woman was homeless. A part of Sherlock's Homeless network then. It was bizarre to watch Sherlock quietly go through the motions of feeling. He experienced regret, hostility and acceptance in the span of a few seconds before it was down to business. Still, John realized his anger had receded beneath the indifferent surface as he deduced the scene critically. His answers were a little more clipped with everyone, and even Anderson had the sense to not disturb him in anyway. Actually, since Sherlock's return, Anderson had been acting a little differently. John had found him staring at the consulting detective a lot; in silent awe he thought it was which seemed totally asinine, and a tiny bit funny.

No one would come to claim the woman's body at the morgue, that was obvious to everyone, but they went through the gestures moving her there after Sherlock had surveyed the scene, deducing everything there was, which hadn't been much. From the pictures they had seen of Taylor's corpse in the alley behind her flat, the murder was rather similar. Drugged again, no signs of any other injuries sustained aside from the strangulation marks on her neck. Eyes taken. John was hoping for Molly to have some good news about the toxicology report, something to at least preoccupy Sherlock a little longer as they waited for any slip up. Though he would never admit to anything, John knew Sherlock cared about humanity, even if he thought the lot of them were dull and incompetent. He wouldn't have chosen this line of work otherwise, and the people of his Homeless network were innocent, so willing to help him in the same way John was. When something like that was threatened, Sherlock felt responsible.

"Why again so soon?" Sherlock asked aloud in the cab as they followed back to Scotland Yard.

John was never sure when his flatmate was actually asking him something, or merely speaking his unintelligible thoughts into the open, "Pardon?" He asked on the assumption that his raised voice had been used for the purpose of being heard.

"Get the fluff out of your ears John and pay attention. The gap between the last murders was but a few days, which wasn't so with the other three victims. What is his obsessive collecting of human eyes for?"

Out of all the questions, it seemed so odd to hear it come from Sherlock's mouth after the experiments he had executed in their flat, "Maybe he's putting them in the microwave." John put smartly.

"Sarcasm John, at a time like this?"

"I am sorry." John added heartily with a small chuckle, "But after all of the organs you have put me through in the last few years, it just was funny to me that it is the first question you'd ask."

Apparently the humor was lost on Sherlock's part, who merely frowned shortly until getting out of the cab as it stopped outside of the building. With a sigh, John tossed the cabbie the money and was hot on Sherlock's trail into the Yard. After going to the scene, John didn't rightfully know what they were doing there. There were no other leads, and Molly hadn't yet texted with any information coming in from the report. The day was losing light as winter would set in on them soon, and John wanted to get home at a descent hour for once, to maybe eat at a normal supper time (all he had managed to scrounge up was a small bag of dry crisps and a cup of water). Takeaway was looking like a strong possibility, though he always seemed to have deep cravings for the Chinese restaurant to which they were frequent visitors.

He followed the tail of Sherlock's coat; the last place it turned into was Lestrade's office. He wondered if Greg was even aware they had followed after him here. Surely the Yard had other cases besides this one that needed attending, and fitting in Sherlock's demands on top of that would be taxing for the Detective Inspector, "Sherlock!" John called as he panted after his friend into Lestrade's office. It would appear they had already started without him.

"Hello John, nice to see you again, and so quickly." Greg shot Sherlock an annoyed look, "I really don't have time for this Sherlock. Right now I've got ninety-nine problems, and you're my biggest one."

"I highly doubt that, considering your divorce, and the monthly fees you are worrying about that are past-due in your new flat."

"Sherlock." John scolded, giving Greg an apologetic look which the man brushed aside with a scowl. John turned to Sherlock, his patience ebbing away, "If you get what you came here for, can we clear out right away?"

Sherlock blinked for a moment, unresponsive before he turned to Lestrade, "Yes."

Lestrade knew when he was defeated, but had enough grace to not look entirely put-out, "What do you need? I don't think there is anything more I can give you on this case that you don't already know."

"I want a file pulled on Avery Nash."

If it was possible, Lestrade's eyes grew almost as big as John's, "The head of security for Vicarious? You can't honestly think it was her."

John was about to accuse the same thing at Sherlock, but the consulting detective seemed appalled by Lestrade's remark, "What dim-witted creatures I surround myself with." He said dramatically.

"Oh alright I get it, I was wrong, but I can't just pull a file without reason, and I can't be handing out someone's personal record just because you want it." Lestrade refuted. "Unless of course, it pertains to the case in some form?"

"Of course." Sherlock lied without breaking his stoic countenance, "I'll settle for copies."

Lestrade pretended to toy with the idea in his head, but already he was caught in the belief that Sherlock might actually need those papers for the case, and it was enough to placate him as he stood from his chair, "Wait here a moment."

John's eyes followed his feet out the door before he turned to his flatmate with a frown, "What are you playing at Sherlock?"

"Avery is a liar John." He stated simply, "A talented liar because of her career path, and I don't have nearly the amount of time I would like to sort through her, so her file will have to suffice until this case is finished."

"What on Earth could she be lying about? I think you're getting twisted out of form over nothing. It's not unusual for a woman to have a past she wants to hide from, you know?" John waved his hand off in the air, thinking better of expanding on that thought, "Oh forget it. You aren't going to listen to me. I can see you've made your mind up about this."

"Good, we are in agreement then." Sherlock nodded once in dismissal.

"No we bloody are not!"

"John, I would suggest you seek female company to rid yourself of stress. You are awfully ornery as of late, and it makes you quite unhelpful considering the state of things."

John was about to retort if it hadn't have been for Lestrade's poor timing on return. He thrust a packet of papers into Sherlock's awaiting hands as he went by back to his desk, "Don't tell anyone where you got that file from, and return them once you're done, or better yet burn them. They're only copies."

"Right then." Sherlock said without thanks, "Shall we leave?"

John didn't know whether to laugh at Sherlock for being so obtuse, or to slap him, a conflicting feeling he often felt torn about when Sherlock was deep in his work. He shrugged with a half-smile and added, "We're having a guest for tea soon, and I don't want to keep her waiting. Good day, Greg." John said his goodbyes while Sherlock merely left the room without a word.

They passed Donovan on their way through the halls of the Yard, her stopping to turn and give them a curious and somewhat sour look before she kept on walking. People still weren't quite sure what they were seeing as Sherlock and John cruised through the corridors, or blazed through a crime scene. Double-takes were something they had grown accustomed too now, though sometimes John also had to take a look beside him and remind himself this was real, that his friend truly was alive and well. "Must you go through on these ridiculous plans for tea with her?"

"So it's back to _'her'_ is it? A moment ago you were calling her Avery." John goaded.

"Really? A simple slip of the tongue I suppose." He said brusquely.

John huffed, "Well whatever the reason, you were the one who said I should find some female company, and I'm following that advice. Besides, you said you didn't have time to sort through whatever she may or may not be lying about, so keeping her close is a good idea. I might even be helping you."

Sherlock made a noise in the back of his throat that sounded like disbelief. Hell, John wasn't even sure he believed all of that, but sometimes he liked to be seen as useful in the eyes of the consulting detective. It was nice to be needed. There wasn't much for him to blog about these days, not with the media hanging about on Sherlock's every move since he'd become London's latest social pariah. Not that he hadn't always been, but he'd upgraded to a much higher scale now. John wouldn't quit completely though, and he'd already done two new entries since Sherlock's return, one for each month. Once they closed this case, he'd be sure to write a good long entry, with a creative title and everything. Maybe with her permission, he'd include Avery's name as well.

They got into a cab, heading for Baker Street. John kept checking his phone while Sherlock's thoughts were still heavily involved in the case, and the body of one of his own. A deep frown had set in on his ivory face, and John wondered if he'd be hearing any dismal tones coming from the violin tonight, a likely possibility when Sherlock was in a mood. Short on time, he also realized he would miss the chance to go to the shop to pick up any staple foods they were short on, as well as any patches for Sherlock. If things got too unbearable, he supposed he'd have to cave under pressure and let Sherlock have one more cigarette from Avery if it would keep his insensitive remarks from elevating. Guilt washed over him at the thought, causing him to feel like an unsupportive friend and a bad doctor.

The familiar sights of home came into view, and John was relieved as they stopped in front of Baker Street, more than ready to go up to the flat and a change out of his funeral attire. He was following at Sherlock's side, nearly causing a commotion at the door when Mrs. Hudson stepped outside in her hat and coat, her face the definition of surprise, "Oh dear me." She gasped.

Sherlock steadied her with one hand, offering up an apology from both of them as he tucked the file safely under his other arm, while John had been quick to catch her handbag, "Going out Mrs. Hudson?" He asked while handing her back her bag.

"Just a quick trip. Coffee with a lady friend." She explained cheerfully, "And are you two in for the night now?"

"Yes—"

"Uncertain—"

Him and Sherlock answered at the same time, though John supposed his friend gave the better answer. He could be dragged out at any hour for a case, so a definitive yes was a poor choice of assumption. With his face flushed pink, John cleared his throat, "Well, maybe not. We're having a guest over for tea." He explained again for the second time.

"Oh how lovely." She gushed, "Would you like me to pick out anything for dessert for you and your guest?"

"No Mrs. Hudson, you go and have your fun. I'm sure Avery won't be staying long." Sherlock dismissed with a quick peck to her cheek before heading off upstairs.

John forced a smile and said his farewell, wishing their landlady a goodnight before following up the seventeen steps to their flat. He went through the opened door, Sherlock's coat and scarf already abandoned as he sat in his chair, papers up to his face as he tore through Avery's personal file. While staring at him, all John could think about was how the devil was he supposed to get through this visit without appearing guilty? He shed his outside clothes before trudging up to his room to change. Deciding on a forest green jumper while putting away his black clothing in the laundry basket for a wash, he finished tidying as he stopped to look in his mirror. He didn't want to think Mycroft Holmes had gotten to him, but maybe the moustache was a bad idea. He didn't look that old after all, and his initial thought had been it gave him character. There wasn't time for shaving now (or for insecurities), and he sent a quick text to Avery to confirm when she'd be coming by before he went back down to join Sherlock.

Lucy had made her way up to them at an unnoticed time, watching Sherlock in his chair from the arm of the couch. His face was set into a deep frown before he unexpectedly threw the file up in the air, scattering papers everywhere on the furniture and floor. Lucy hissed as she jumped down, hiding from the falling sheets as Sherlock stood fiercely, "Boring. Useless." He declared in irritation.

"So I see, but was that anyway to react?" John said grumpily as he bent down to retrieve the papers off the floor.

"There was nothing there! Minor details about a breaking and entering, and criminal possession from over ten years ago. Dull! Much too clean a record for someone like her, and has likely been scrubbed because of the company she keeps."

"Maybe you should ask Mycroft." John suggested, hiding his smirk when his back was turned from Sherlock as he continued to put the file back together.

"Don't be cute John." Sherlock deadpanned as he stopped in his tracks at the window, peering through the side of the drapes to outside, "I suggest you pick up your pace, because she's stepping out of a cab."

"Already?!" John cried as he ushering the rest of the papers unevenly into the folder, rushing towards Sherlock's bedroom door as he flung the file unceremoniously on to the bed. The explosion of papers could be heard again before John snapped the door shut with a breath.

"Are you quite finished?" Sherlock asked calmly as he sat back down in his chair.

"I like to keep a clean flat…when I can." He added, "I'll just go invite her in then."

Sherlock hummed his response as he stared off to the side at Lucy, slowly making her way out from the table. John left the door opened as he took down the stairs one at a time, arriving at the front door just as Avery knocked firmly from outside. Not wanting to seem desperate, he gave it a moment before answering, while fixing his dishevelled clothing from his frantic cleaning of Sherlock's mess. Who was he kidding? This was going to end in disaster. The afternoon had been evidence enough of that. He took in a deep breath, plastering on a fake smile before he opened the door, "Hello." He greeted with false cheer.

Avery pulled a little tighter at her coat as she smiled through the doorway at him, "Hi. I'm sorry if I'm a little late, and that I'm not exactly dressed in date attire. I'm a little pressed for time." She gestured to her work clothes underneath her jacket as she stepped into the hallway of Baker Street, John closing the door behind her.

"No trouble. I'm not really sure if it is a date anyways." He rubbed the back of his neck bashfully while Avery seemed to visibly relax that nothing was expected of her, "Oh er—guess we should go upstairs then. Normally our landlady would have opened the door to let you in, but she's away tonight."

"Landlady? Sounds more like a housekeeper if you ask me." Avery laughed, attempting to make the situation seem less awkward than it obviously was, and for both of them.

"She makes a point to remind us of that fact often." John agreed as they reached the top of the stairs. For a moment he was tempted to pull Avery back to safety and lock her outside before this visit could commence, but instead he allowed her to enter first, appearing completely respectful as he fought down the urge.

"Hello Lucy." The cat had abandoned Sherlock to come greet her at the door, rubbing up against the black trousers, leaving little white hairs behind, "I thought she was a gift for your landlady?" Avery picked the cat up off the floor despite her allergies as her eyes took in the area of the flat. Sherlock was right where John had left him, apparently off somewhere in his mind palace, too preoccupied to care about their visitor.

"She is, but she finds her way up here sometimes. I think she likes Sherlock." John remarked teasingly, "All we have is Earl Grey, I hope that's alright."

"That's perfect. I like—"

"One sugar, no milk." Sherlock interrupted.

Both pairs of eyes surfaced to Sherlock who was now alert to the happenings of the room. Avery let a small smile bled on to her face, "That's undoubtedly correct."

John cleared his throat, nervously glancing between Avery and his flatmate, "Right, I'll start the kettle." He shot Sherlock one last pleading look, to not start anything now during a civil visit, if it could be anything of the sort. The success or failure depended on Sherlock.

So far, Avery hadn't said much of anything in terms of the condition of their flat. Her eyes had found the skull once, regarding it without much emotion, and then traveled to the violin. One would suspect she would ask Sherlock if he played, but she turned away from it too, now looking down at Lucy on her lap as the cat acted as a tether connecting them, staring at Sherlock with beady black eyes while Avery's fingers ran through the long hair. Sherlock's eyes were narrowed, but in deep thought or anger was difficult to decipher. Not wanting to come off as rude in his home, she offered to speak first, "I find it difficult to believe you have nothing to say, Mr. Holmes."

"You played the alto saxophone in the past."

Her brows furrowed slightly, "How did you know that?"

"It is obvious by your hands that you used to be in practice with an instrument. Nothing with strings as there is barely any callus on the tips of your fingers. Long, narrow, but you don't strike me as one with patience to play piano, or a woodwind instrument. Jazz music is your preference, and you often lean forward in a hunch, your body recalling having to favour the weight of the instrument."

"Nothing slips past you." She was only slightly impressed as she shook her head in disbelief. "I don't play anymore though."

"Why not?" John popped his head back in, making it apparent he had been eavesdropping.

Avery looked thoughtful as she considered this, "Because I don't need to."

"No one needs to play music." Sherlock cut in, "You stopped because you were dejected, someone in your life considering it a waste of your time. Tragic that you would allow such stupidity to sway you."

"I agree with you." John nearly spilt his tea as he set a cup down before her on the table. Sherlock appeared more engaged as well, shifting in his chair just the slightest as he studied her on the couch. Really, John was surprised he hadn't thrown up a fuss about her sitting there. Sherlock could be quite possessive over the furniture.

"You agree. Which part in particular spoke to you?" He challenged.

"That I allowed myself to be swayed by someone else. This might surprise you, but I wasn't always the way I am now."

Sherlock provoked her further, "Abrasive?"

"Oh dear God." John muttered behind the lip of his cup at Sherlock's outburst.

Avery looked stunned for a moment before she laughed pleasantly, "Just with you Mr. Holmes."

"So it would seem." He said without emotion.

"What were you like before?" John interrupted as he adjusted his position on the couch. Sitting beside her, he was embarrassed to find she was still visibly taller than him.

"Naïve."

"Oh, everyone is allowed that when they're young."

"Yes, but not everyone is weak enough to do the things I did. I think I suffered from an extreme case of naivety." There was a pregnant pause in which she leaned over the table for her tea, causing Lucy to jump down from the unexpected movement. Lucy took John's chair, it being the closest thing for her to stare openly at Sherlock as he continued to observe Avery, "How is your case going?"

"Not well. There was another body found. The incident similar to Ms. Greenly's." John explained quietly. "She was homeless."

Avery frowned, distressed by the news, and even angered. "I'm sorry to hear that."

"Your sentiment contributes nothing." Sherlock said with an eye roll.

"I suppose it doesn't, but then what are a few kind words shared between friends going to hurt?" She took a sip of her tea, waiting for Sherlock's response just as John was.

"We are not friends."

"No?" She asked, feigning surprise, "But it seems unfair you know so much about me without having to try to earn it."

"Redundant." He said indifferently, "I presume it is expected for friends to call each other by first name." Sherlock smirked slightly in triumph.

"Oh honestly, you're still on about that?" Avery said, brushing her fringe out of her eyes, "Nice attempt that was, Mr. Holmes."

He scowled again, "Then your only friend here is John, though I confess that will disappoint him. The efforts he's put forth to impress you are staggering."

John choked on the hot sip of tea he had just swallowed, sputtering to form an answer, "It's nothing! Truthfully, I think I've just found myself to be on the wrong side of forty lately. Still no assets, or wife, or kids."

"Dull." Sherlock said, a hint of disgust in his tone.

"It isn't dull." John objected as he picked up his empty china cup, heading to the kitchen in a mood to refill his tea from the kettle on the hob.

There was a moment's pause in muted silence between her and Sherlock. The only sounds made came from John in the other room passed the sliding doors. Avery uncrossed her legs, bringing her foot down as it caught on something on the floor, sticking to the toe of her shoe as it scuffed against the wood. Her curiosity led her to lean over and pick the item up off the floor, Sherlock containing a wince at what it was, "Oh dear, it appears you missed one John." He called.

"Missed what?" John asked as he reappeared, only to stare in horror at what Avery was holding in her hand. A blank look had taken over her face as her eyes searched over the offending item, "That's not what it looks like." He attempted to feebly pacify her.

"I think it's exactly what it looks like John." She refuted, "You have been doing some light reading on me I see." She accused as she looked over the sheet from her file.

One blasted piece of paper! And things had been going so well too. They'd had their tea without her having to witness any of the body parts in their fridge, nor did she ask for a tour when John had been willing to offer if she had. Even she and Sherlock had managed to speak some more without her telling him to 'piss off' at any given time for his deductions. John was frustrated at himself for missing that one sheet of paper, and he was upset with Sherlock for having brought that file into their flat in the first place.

"Hardly anything to get upset over. There wasn't anything of interest there for me." Sherlock said carelessly.

What John expected to be an outburst of emotions, turned out quite differently from Avery, "Oh I know. You got these from the Yard then?"

Sherlock trained his eyes on her, a knowing look on his face as his deduction of her record being too clean was proven correct, "What else have you done Ms. Nash?"

"I'm sure you'll find that out eventually. After all, you are so good at what you do Sherlock." She smirked slightly as she stood; leaving Sherlock stupefied as she went, "Thank you for the tea John, but I should be leaving now."

John stood with his mouth agape, cup and saucer still in his hand as he leaned against the doorjamb to the kitchen, "Oh…right. Do you need me to walk you out?"

"I know my way. Don't worry about me." She said softly as she went to leave, "Thank you for the tea, and good luck with your case."

Sherlock scoffed as he collected himself, "There is no such thing as luck."

She paused with her back turned, head tilted as she considered his words, "I'd like the chance to prove you wrong someday."

She certainly knew when to make an exit. John stood still for a long time after they had listened to her feet traveling down the stairs and out the door, the wood sticking after swelling from the rain they'd had that morning. Sherlock had flown out of his chair to the window, quicker than the movements of Lucy, vexation ever present on his face as he spied Avery departing in a cab into the dark of the evening. The tables had turned, and now the consulting detective looked put-out that she had left so soon.

"I think we've managed to scare her off." John said finally, breaking the silence.

"No." His flatmate replied with certainty, "It would take more than that to scare her off. We have her now John, she's not going anywhere."

Always so confident, John thought wryly as picked up the piece of paper she had left behind. He hated to admit it, but he was slowly starting to fall under curiosity, the same as Sherlock. What did Avery and Max have in common with James Moriarty besides a dodgy business? Music broke through John's quiet thoughts, and he looked up to see Sherlock's back as he played something soft on the strings of his violin, "She wasn't wearing the necklace."

"What?" John asked in bemusement.

"The necklace. There was a chain around her neck she wore to the funeral. She must have noticed I had seen it before. I doubt we'll be seeing the likes of it again."

"Or she doesn't wear it to her job." John pointed out. "Or she took it off and forgot to put it back on. Either way, what are you suggesting?"

"The significance John. What does it mean?"

"It's not unusual for a man to give a woman a necklace."

Sherlock's screeched his note from the bow on his violin as he paused to think, "Interesting you should say that John."

"Well, you did mention something about her being in love once. I just assumed."

"The right assumption. I believe you are learning." Sherlock said as his phone pinged into the quiet of the room. John smiled at the half compliment, cherishing the moment before it was gone. The violin had been set down as Sherlock looked at his phone, a small gleam in his eye as he read over the text, "Fancy a trip to St. Bart's?"

Finally, the toxicology report was in. It looked like Chinese takeaway would have to wait as Sherlock started for his coat and scarf, the night calling them once again. John stood off of the couch with a sigh, but smiled to himself as he shrugged. It looked like he would be on the wrong side of forty for a little bit longer. "Oh, why not?!"

* * *

**Well, Avery finally broke her habit at the last second of last name only. The case is heading forward as more news comes in, and the mystery builds around our head of security and whatever the chain means. I Hope this chapter was alright. Are you guys excited for the Hobbit, and if so, do you already have your tickets? I know I do, and I'm jumping off the walls in anticipation! Also, I was thinking of raising the rating to this story just in case, but figured I'd ask you guys first.**

**Next chapter: The toxicology report is in, and Sherlock needs more information about Taylor from Avery. **


	7. Utilitarian Woman

**Happy Holidays!**

**Special thanks to ****hannahhobnob****, ****Le Pleiade****, ****LookAliveSunshine03****, ****JobanaBallack****, ****DoctorGiggelstheMouse****, ****bored411****, ****221BluePoliceBox**** and Jeralee (who went through every chapter) you guys all rock! **

**Disclaimer: I only own any OC's and original plot idea's you don't recognize.**

* * *

The days had progressed into the next week. Utter silence continued from the case since the toxicology report had come back from Molly, leaving Sherlock to mull over another degree to the murders. He had started with seven theories and was down to just three after what the reports had exposed in a significant detail. The drug in the prostitutes system, and likely through the homeless victim (while they waited for that report) was Diprivan. Also known as propofol, a hypnotic or anaesthetic drug given through an intravenous. Surprising it was a rather weak drug, more used in small procedures in the medical field to obtain partial or complete unconsciousness for a brief period of time, also reducing sensitivity to pain. John referred to it as _conscious sedation_. The women only had to be unconscious long enough for the killer to asphyxiate his victims, and surely as he observed the fourth victim over at the morgue in St. Bart's, a small needle mark was visible in the skin of her arm.

There was something he was missing, and on the quiet Thursday morning as he stood before the window in his dressing gown, he continued to screech off notes from his violin, not playing a tune of anything except perhaps his frustration over the lack of stimuli for this case. When something happened, his excitement rose to unnatural heights, but there was a slope to this case, and the serial killer appeared to have no pattern for his kills besides the larceny of eyeballs. A mistake would happen soon, and he'd be the first to spot it.

Shoes coming down the stairs alerted him to John on the move in the flat, though he didn't bother to turn around or cease in his playing, "Alright, I'm off." John said, the rustling of his coat sleeves indicating he was going outdoors.

"To where?" Sherlock bemused in disinterest.

An indignant sigh blew out from John's lips. Annoyance, and so early in the morning, "To work Sherlock, that place I go to so we make rent. Also, someone has to keep milk in the house."

"We have milk." He argued offhandedly.

"Fresh milk. Not whatever that gloop is in the fridge." A jingle of keys could be heard while John tied his scarf tightly around his neck and chin, "Are you actually going to get dressed today?"

"Irrelevant." He finally stopped with the violin, setting it aside as he flopped down in his chair. Lucy wasn't even present to hold his interest, which meant his mind turned to cigarettes, and that always managed to remind him of Avery whom hadn't resumed contact with them since her visit. He would be sorely disappointed if John was correct in his scaring her off so easily. That gave him an idea, "Call in sick today. I would like to make a visit to our head of security."

"Our head of security?" John questioned, before shaking his head and waving his gloved hands in the air, "Oh, never mind that. I can't call in sick. We've been too busy with treatments for people stuck on organ waiting lists, making them comfortable with what little we can provide for their symptoms. Plus, it snowed last night, which means there will be very few people willing to make the journey over if I'm not there. Go and see Avery yourself. Worst case scenario is she closes the door in your face." John shrugged, nothing left to say as he made for the door, shutting it with a little more force as he went.

Sherlock sat numbly, listening to the sound of John leaving, and then continued to listen to the muted sounds of Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson was out again, and he realized her secretive behavior meant she was meeting with someone she didn't want John or him to know about, though him being the more likely reason. He cared little to explore that, so long as their landlady was happy and everything protected. Funny, he'd never much considered safety on any scale. Caution wasn't a familiar step taken in his line of work, but since Moriarty, he did halt for a fraction to think over it now, especially where his friends were concerned. He was more alert, and they were none the wiser for it. A fair trade.

Coming back from the recesses of his mind, he looked at the cold mantle above the fireplace. Without a roaring fire inside, it only seemed to filter in the winter air from outside from the first snow. His eyes continued to trace over the other objects, mostly everything in place and you wouldn't have known about his departure because of John's insistence to not move on, or his inability to do so. Even the yellow smiley face was still on the wall with the bullet holes, as if it had been plastered there the day the building was put up, lined in the drywall. His things. It seemed John was protective of preserving the memory of his existence here, and he could forgive sentiment just this once for his flatmate. His gaze landed on the empty cranium of his 'friend' sitting still on the mantle, two concaves in the front starring his way in question. He wasn't much in favour of the idea of speaking to his skull today. He needed real responses, and a set of eyes to at least look at.

As quick as his fingers could work, he tapped out a text and hit send while he went to his room to dress before he would grow distracted by other things. The file was still on his bed, tidied since the tea visit, though he hadn't bothered to look through it anymore, knowing from the woman herself it was fruitless. While it appeared she was going out of her way to purposefully goad him, it nevertheless was working, if only the smallest bit. She'd at least stopped her nettlesome habits of calling him by the last name.

Once he was finished dressing, he checked over his phone to see she had replied, the black and white text filled with her tone that he could almost hear her in the room with him.

_**I would ask how you know my living address, but that would be wasting our time. **_

_**I'll have tea made, whether or not you want any is up to you.**_

_**And be quick about it.**_

—_**AN **_

Curious. She didn't ask about his knowing her number either, leaving it up to assumption that John had given it to him. A half-truth. He'd stolen it from John's phone when his flatmate was sleeping. For the time, he needed to be able to contact her for the case, and for his own reasons of solving what she wished to remain hidden. He left his room, grabbing his coat and scarf for good measure. Without John, he'd have to pay his own fare, and traffic would be slow because of the rapid change in weather. Honestly, it wasn't as if they didn't receive snow every year, yet it always managed to grab the masses of London by surprise and there was a constant learning curve for drivers to adjust to the cold conditions.

He took the stairs two at a time, in haste to continue with the case and so caught up in his thoughts that he almost didn't see Mrs. Hudson as she came through the door. Her cheeks were rosy, hat and shoulders lightly dusted with a layer from the falling snow while she stomped off the powder from her shoes, "Heading out dear?" She asked, slightly winded from the cold.

"Yes." Sherlock answered, slightly suspicious as his eyes swept over her, deducing where she had been, "You weren't meeting with your lady friend. You also haven't traveled far, coat and shoes showing only a hint of being touched by snow, so an attendance at Speedy's. This person was a stranger up until last night. You attire and perfume doesn't speak for a date, so a friendly visit then, over business or some form of collecting information."

Mrs. Hudson sighed as she smiled at him, "I've been interviewing for prospect renters for 221c. A young man in particular is interested, and I wanted to surprise you and John with a visit from him tonight. I should have known better."

Sherlock didn't hide the look of disgust that passed over his face. Who would voluntarily want to live in that dank basement flat of Baker Street, and he doubted if Mrs. Hudson would be able to find someone who could adjust to the lifestyle of the building. He didn't want to have to put up with a fresh face, and he understood why Mrs. Hudson had attempted to be quiet while going about this task.

"At least allow him this one visit. I'm sure he'll be able to make up his mind about wanting to live here himself." His landlady added, a slight pleading tone in her motherly voice.

"Oh, very well." He agreed, knowing full well they wouldn't be gaining a new neighbour if he could help it.

He placed a quick kiss on her cheek in goodbye before he left out the front door. Instantly he was assaulted by the blustering winds and the sharp feeling of snow and ice pelting his exposed face. Pulling his collar tighter around his neck, he signaled for a cab, by chance one had been passing through before it pulled to a skidding halt by the pavement. He shook the snow from his hair as he sat solo in the back, giving out Avery's address to the cabbie as they trudged their way into traffic. With his mood somber over the possibility of a new neighbour, he pulled out his phone as a distraction.

Avery hadn't responded again, and he hadn't bothered with a reply. Considering that he was making the trip to invade on her afternoon, he wondered if it was proper etiquette to say something else. John would know better in this situation. While it normally gave him no grievance to intrude on another, he knew his head of security was an exception to this ritual of his. She would have the advantage of setting, it being her flat. He rather liked always having a leg up on everyone he came across, but the odds were a little lost on him with her, if even the smallest fraction. How on Earth had London managed to hide her this long? With her being acquainted to Mycroft and Moriarty, it seemed outlandish they hadn't crossed paths until this point in time.

The cab ride was taking too long, and he blew out an annoyed breath, earning him an ardent look of animosity form the cabbie. Really though, he could walk faster than this car, and in the cold and snow too. He was convinced as ever that luck didn't exist, and if it did, it wouldn't favour his side. While managing to give direction tips into the ear of the annoyed cabbie, he made it to Avery's building a full twenty minutes later then he had intended.

"Oiy, off you go then." The cabbie said, glad to be rid of him after being told about that last sharp turn to the left that nearly resulted in the front bumper hitting a snow bank. Sherlock chalked it up to the cabbies low mental capacity and slow reaction time.

He was out in the frost again, winter biting without relent on the sharp contours of his face as he kept his collar as high as it could go, breathing into the fabric of his scarf that still held the faint tobacco from his last cigarette outside the Diogenes club. He hastened his pace, stretching his legs as far as they could carry him as he reached the ground floor of her building. A much different residence than Baker Street, more expensive which meant she had a larger space. He hadn't needed to ask if she had a flatmate, deducing it was obvious she lived alone because of the secrecy of her job. Just as well, she would make a rather difficult person to share a space with, and coming across another John Watson like he had in this city wasn't easy.

He sprinted up the wide set of stairs, nearly losing his breath as he reached her floor. He scrunched his nose at having to take more than his normal set of seventeen, finding this journey rather tiresome without his doctor. He knocked loudly at her door, causing much more noise than needed to make known his arrival. The scowl he was wearing didn't go away as the door opened, Avery standing there in an outfit he couldn't imagine she herself had picked out. A soft pink polo neck, and from pulling it over her head had ruffled her hair because the short strands in the back were brushed at odd angles. Her feet were bare on a cold day, dark trousers not quite reaching her ankles as she crossed them, waiting for him to step inside. She offered no greeting, though her eyes said everything for her.

"Very inconvenient, how far away you live." He commented.

"Well I'm sorry if my flat isn't up to your standard of distance." She said without sincerity, though not entirely unkind, "I have other company, so play nicely." Her warning was stern, not bothering with simple pleasantries which he was thankful for.

His eyes were hungry to study the details of her flat, but the thought was lost on him quickly as his eyes landed on a stocky figure on her chestnut brown settee, sipping casually from china as his frosted eyes met with a matching pair, "Good afternoon, Sherlock."

"No." Was the first word to leave his lips. He turned to Avery with guile, trying to add up the skewed lines of why she would be spending the early part of her day with his brother.

She held up her hand in defense, her mouth drawn into a thin line much like his, "An unexpected visit, I can assure you."

"No matter." Mycroft interrupted as he stood, setting the cup back down on its saucer as he went, "I was about to make my exit. Ms. Avery and I are finished with our business."

"Really?" Avery spoke out of surprise and an underlying of suspicion, "But you'd only just arrived ten minutes before."

"Indeed, that was more than enough time for me to have finished my share of the conversation. I trust you'll think over what I have said." He tightened the belt of his long coat, umbrella waiting for the grasp of his fingers at the door as he took care of one last glance at the telly, playing over an old episode of 'Only Fools and Horses'. He breathed a laugh at something 'Uncle Albert' said—Mycroft's laugh sounding more like a wheezing animal because he showed little affection for humor. He strode in short steps to the door where Sherlock hadn't moved, and he could see his brother sweating through those pricey layers already before making his journey out into the cold where a black car surely awaited, "Good day to you Avery. I will be in touch with Maxwell next week."

"I'll pass on the message." She promised amicably.

"Sherlock." He said once more with a head nod of acknowledgement, enough of a prod to rouse Sherlock's annoyance in his absence.

Avery shut the door, turning around in an instant as she leaned her weight up against the heavy oak. There was something playful about her expression, even though she wasn't smiling. Not that she ever did as Sherlock had noted, most unusual for the fairer sex, "Go on then, comment away." She said, giving her permission for him to speak freely.

"Visits with Mycroft are frequent for you." It wasn't so much a question, though he wanted the confirmation nonetheless.

"If I say yes, will you be disappointed?"

"Yes." He said with a scrunched up look of distaste.

She huffed as she pushed off the door with her weight, "Honestly, why is it you can still find children amongst men?" She walked past him into the sitting room of her flat, shutting off the telly while the room cascaded into silence, "I don't want to talk about your brother, so why don't we start with your reason for this visit?" She sat down in her tufted leather chair, supple and a rich brown colour that was rather inviting much like the matching settee. She made an indication with her hands that he could sit as well, not that he needed the invitation.

His observations of her flat left him with the same conclusions as the interior of her office space. She had nothing personal exposed, and she either had no sentiment, or a reason to hide all matter of items as such. The walls were neutral beige, the furniture lined in order where there was any. Much of the floor was unoccupied, a large span of rugs and hardwood with little else to view. No pictures once again, and neither did any artwork hang on the walls. While her taste was expensive, it felt like not a soul could be found in the showroom state of her home save for the upkeep of no fingerprints, dust or rings on the coffee table. He assumed her bedroom was down the narrow hallway to his right along with the loo and a small broom cupboard, while her kitchen was laid on the left with a spare bedroom. Everything was on the one floor, and the lighting dim even with the drapes pulled opened at the large bay window.

Patiently she waited for him to finish before speaking, "A break in the case then?"

"Unintentionally brought on by John, though he is unaware of that. Seeing as you conduct background checks, you must also know your workers medical records."

"I do." She answered honestly, her face growing curious, "All of those files are kept in my office at the club though, so anything you need to see, I'm afraid I don't have."

"Then I must ask you clear your schedule for today, regardless of important engagements."

She pulled a face, more in wonder than of anger, "John's not with you today?"

"Clinical work." Sherlock excused, not wanting to delve into the boring details of John's job.

She sighed as she brought herself out of her chair to stand, "Fortunate for you that I don't have any appointments to break. I'll go change, and please try to refrain from touching anything."

He listened to the soft padding of her feet travel across the curlicue patterned rug of her hallway before the small snap of her door to her bedroom. He was up from the settee in an instant, searching through the odd ends of her flat in hopes of finding anything more to educate him on the mystery of her past. Was it possible for a woman to own this little? His hands patted down her mantle, the cushions of her furniture and the side tables (in which he found a revolver in one of her drawers) before he silently went to the kitchen. Also a spotless room, the cupboards were dark and the appliances sanitary white as he rummaged through the contents. She certainly had more food kept around than he or John, and she was only one person. Health food, made up of the four food groups, though there was half a baked apple pie kept under plastic wrap that smelt sweeter than anything that had ever graced their kitchen. Dull, nothing alluding to her secrets, only that she was a healthy individual who would rather cook than order takeaway.

He strode back into the sitting room, a prominent frown on his face as he paced across the hardwood. She still hadn't returned, and the feminine habit of taking too long to get ready was trying his nerves. His mind came up with an idea to get her attention as his muted footsteps took him back over to her side table. Keeping quiet, his hand found the revolver lying in the wooden drawer, his fingers enclosing around it as he brought it out into the open. He knew which wall wasn't connected to another flat, and he took careful aim with a keen eye, grip secure around the trigger as he fired. Fascinating, his eyes took in the weapon with astonishment. Her pistol was of a higher caliber of strength than John's, and he had blown a sizably large hole in her wall, the paint chipping away as pieces of the drywall fell to the ground.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" Avery shouted at him, having been halfway down the hall when he had fired. She had one hand covering her ear, shocked from the gunshot.

"Honestly, you were taking much too long and I am in a hurry."

She had no reply to that, and while he had been preparing for an onslaught of her words, he was decidedly surprised when a force hit him like a freight train, bringing him down to the ground as he went face to face with her floors, getting a mouthful of hardwood. He could almost taste the lemon pine sol floor cleaner as she kept him down with her weight atop him, her knee pressing into the middle of his back as she pried the revolver from his fingers, "Really, you had to do that? I have neighbours, some of whom I'd like not to report me. Things are strange enough around here as is with your brother stopping by unannounced." She spoke rather calmly considering their position, which he wasn't growing fond off. Rather degrading in fact. "You're paying for my wall." She remarked as she let him up.

He shot her a black glare as he dusted himself off from the unpleasant fall to the ground. Her lithe figure was rather deceiving and he hadn't anticipated being manhandled quite like that. It was rather good John wasn't there, though if he had been the gunshot wouldn't have likely occurred either. She put the gun back in her drawer, locking it for good measure before she crossed her arms to look at him with laughter in her eyes, "I suspect your searching was in vain because you wouldn't have found what you were looking for."

"And what do you think I was looking for?" He played along, feigning ignorance to her suggestion.

"The chain I was wearing at the funeral. I know you saw it, and you can be sure you won't find it again so stop looking."

Being told to quit only furthered his resolve to solving what she wished to remain hidden. He suspected his brother knew more about this woman before him, though he wasn't desperate enough to lower himself to such lengths. It was a new game, something to otherwise occupy his time when no cases were appealing to his mind. Presently he felt himself growing closer to catching this eye ball serial killer, so he set his priorities in order. It didn't stop his eyes from gliding across her bare neck as she walked to the entryway of her door, shrugging on her black peacoat with a gray scarf and hat as she waited for him to join her, "Come on then. Traffic is slow and I don't feel like getting caught up in a blizzard today."

He kept his eyes trained on her, deciding now would be the opportune situation to put an end to his hesitance to believe everything she had told him thus far. As she made to open her door, he reached over to shut it, his height still giving him a distinct advantage over her. She frowned in response, gazing up at him in question, "What is it?"

He loomed over her, trapping her into the corner between the wall and the door as her face fell into shadow from the dim and snug entrance of her flat, "You lied about your past with Moriarty."

She took in a deep breath, not breaking eye contact as they stood almost nose to nose, "Why would you think that?"

"You're reluctance to deny this fact as well as the change of the tone in your voice, detectable to ears that stop to listen. I first picked up on it when you were hesitant to agree to a date with John, and your voice was the same when you spoke to me about Moriarty."

"Oh Sherlock, you are so quick to pick up on the little things. Be careful not to solve everything at once or you'll become bored." She attempted to push past him, but he griped her left arm just above her wrist with his fingers. He tested her heart rate, strong and steady while her breathing remained the same. If it was possible, her eyes narrowed instead of dilating, indicating she wasn't enjoying this close proximity like many had before her, "I would appreciate it if you wouldn't use your tricks on me; I don't flatter easily."

"It is not a trick."

"Now who's the bad liar? You are looking for my breathing to be laboured, my heart rate to have increased, and my eyes to be dilated with arousal. I'm tempted to congratulate you on your forwardness, though old tricks do lose their lustre over time." She stepped forward, leaning her body up against his as he tensed with uncertainty, "Can I have my arm back now?" She whispered into his ear with a teasing edge.

His grip immediately retracted, and his arms went slack at his sides. He was thankful for the blackness they were surrounded in, or she might have caught him in embarrassment, "How did . . . you know about that?" He said as if it was mortally wounding to ask a question.

"A little bird far away told me." They stared at each other in the silence, and it went unsaid what he concluded she was hinting at.

His heart did something silly, plummeting at the idea, having forgotten much of _her_ in the three years he was away to protect his friends. He didn't want to believe what his mind had already deemed as the answer. He now knew Avery was acquainted with Moriarty more than she had initially admitted to, because she was also familiar with _The Woman_. His mood was altered by this realization as he followed blindly by her side to the ground floor of her building. He most certainly hadn't scared her off with his deductions, though he was suddenly sparked with unwillingness to let her venture too close. Avery was either a victim or perpetrator, and he was finding it difficult to see how her being either would make a difference.

"Sherlock." Her voice interrupted the distance he had set between her and his mind palace. He stole a side-glance at her, waiting for her to continue as he turned his eyes forward, "I'm sorry I can't tell you more. Mycroft forbade me from doing so."

So his brother did know more. He scoffed in derision at her for obeying the rules so easily, "And you always do what he tells you?"

"If it is to keep others safe, then yes. You knowing, or not knowing won't change anything. I'm not a permanent fixture in your life anyway, so why should it matter if you know my past down to every detail?"

He ignored whatever sentiment was in her statement, left perplexed by only one thing, "Not a permanent fixture?"

"I should think it is obvious after this case is solved, we will no longer be in contact with one another."

She stopped walking when he did, them facing the doors to the lobby as the white shining snow reflected outside, "John likes you." He said blankly.

"And I like him. I like you both, but that's no reason we have to keep speaking. It's part of my life I guess. I'm not supposed to have friends." She looked at him with an earnest smile before nudging her head to the door, "Come on, go show off and get a cab before I do again."

Her actions seemed forced as she started for outside. Something in her words had caused him to go numb as he followed, quite lost from the melancholy in her voice. She wasn't supposed to have friends, and he didn't have any idea what that meant. Perhaps he should have been more expressive in John's favour of her, just to keep her from saying those things. There had been a time where he had spoken similar, and being placed on the opposite end put him in a zone he was unadjusted to. But what could he say? He wasn't annoyed or irritated by her presence, and he found that to be his level of liking someone in return. The words felt so personal though, and wouldn't be forced to say them for the sake of sparing whatever feelings she was experiencing. He did what he was best at, remaining silent as he hailed them a cab at the pavement of her building, smirking to himself as he once again caught the frustration on her face, whited out by the snow.

* * *

**There is more and more with Avery at every turn. I had fun with this chapter, though I missed John a lot. 221c is starting to get new applicants, and we'll see how that goes yet, but first we have to see the second part of Avery and Sherlock's afternoon as they come to another break in the case. Stay tuned. Hope everyone who saw the Hobbit enjoyed it also, and am planning on a Smaug one-shot soon, so keep an eye opened for that.**


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